


The Austin Friars' Way

by Jennytheshipper



Category: Wolf Hall (TV), Wolf Hall Series - Hilary Mantel
Genre: F/M, alternate universe-canon, alternate universe-history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:40:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 50,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5765143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennytheshipper/pseuds/Jennytheshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>November 1532. Thomas Cromwell and Mary Boleyn are married.  Thomas Howard, The Duke of Norfolk is dead.  Everything else is within the realm of historically possible/plausible.  </p><p>The story picks up where <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4145793">A Month in Calais</a> leaves off.  </p><p>My apologies to history and Hilary Mantel.</p><p>Updated every other Wednesday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dover

They fall into shipboard sleep, a soft bed in the rocking world, nestled together like pups in a den. Any place would be warm enough enfolded around her haunch, with the sound of a tailwind outside, but as they established in a final conversation before sleep came, the room really was quite overheated. With his face burrowed in her hair, he dreams of a coke fire, a searing heat, fed with pumping bellows:in a forge they are melted down to one flesh. He wakes, surprised to find his legs independent. 

He extracts himself from the bed, slowly so as not to wake her, and removes to the window to look out at the sea. They are not on the landward side of the ship—he had spent the Calais-bound leg of the journey explaining “larboard” and “starboard” to the simple Dukes— and he looks out at the shrouded, November dawn which casts a weak glow on the grey sea. Shouldn’t be long now, another hour or two at most. Dover may be already in view from the King’s window.

The room has cooled and he feels the chill on his bare feet. He considers dressing, but it is early yet. She stirs and peers up at him in the dim light. “Thomas, you there?”

“Mmm.”

“Is it morning?”

“Not quite,” he says, moving back toward her.

“Sorry, I…drifted off,” she says through a yawn.

“Nonsense,” he says, leaning across to kiss her head. He stands politely on his side of the bed and she lifts up the covers, an invitation. He climbs in, smiling.

“I warn you: my feet are cold.”

“God’s blood! That’s no joke,” she says, flinging a leg over him, flooding his flank with warmth. 

He thinks about All Hallows Eve in Calais: lonely, edging away from his ghosts, letting the fire gobble up the evidence. He had wanted nothing more than this.

+++

A commotion somewhere above their heads, muffled shouts and muted splashes, followed by the noise of men pulling at oars. It’s a sound no son of Putney could ever mistake for another. They are being towed into Dover. His rhythm adjusts to that of the oarsmen automatically. She opens her eyes, alarmed at the noise. A whispered reassurance: “Just coming into port.” She laughs, gliding underneath him, maneuvering him deeper inside.

+++

He is lacing her into her kirtle, only half-dressed himself. The ship is awake and bustling now as sun streams in their tiny window. The sky, what he can see of it, is a deep blue. He pictures Adelle waiting patiently outside their door for her mistress’ call. Not just yet. A few moments more. In a week, two weeks, this newness will be gone. Until then, Adelle can stand and wait.

“What will we do with ourselves today, Thomas?”

“I have to get us all quartered for the night and then there’s the king’s wedding to arrange,” he says, looking up at the ceiling: baggage is being dragged violently across the ship’s deck. He hopes, whatever it is, it does not belong to the king. 

“So a light day then?” He can hear the smile in her voice.

“The usual. Will you walk out with me to the church?” 

“Yes, if it is allowed to bring your wife on official business.”

“When my wife is the bride’s sister, it could hardly be seen as improper.” He slides a finger behind her ribbons. “There. How’s that?” She takes a deep breath to test it.

“Fine. Quite perfect, actually. You will have Adelle’s job next.”

“She has nothing to worry about. I’m rather hopeless at arranging hair.” She laughs, and he slips an arm around her waist, drawing her near. The pasteboard bodice cuts into his wrist like a plate of armour. Rather stiff and bereft of life, these court styles. He lowers his head and rests his lips briefly on the last patch of bare shoulder before pulling the kirtle’s straps into place. 

+++

On deck, the king is hoisted in a chair over the side, swinging in a wide arc out over the water. He watches from the rail, sweating, waiting his turn. The sea is calm today at least. Mary is in conversation with her sister. They point to the king, their heads together. He might be jealous if he weren’t so terrified. He does not like high places much and high places that move even less. 

The king is put down safely on his jolly boat. Anne sails through the air, smiling, the fresh air bringing high color to her cheeks. Now is the time for Master Holbein to paint her if he must. Her sister is just as keen, though with less of a sense of occasion about the whole thing. Mary looks down at him, blows him a kiss, laughing. He offers up a wan smile, his hand still holding fast on the rail. 

It’s his turn: a sailor approaches with a harness rope and cheerfully lashes him to the tiny wooden seat. He sits, closes his eyes, feels himself relieved of his own weight for a moment and then, suddenly, ten times that pulling him down to the sea. He has made the mistake of opening his eyes in the past, seen the boiling sea below him as he felt the sickening jolt of the chair at the end of its reach. The gulls seem to screech in his ear, _hang on!_ He obediently grips the ropes so tightly that they cut into his hand through his gloves. He grits his jaw until, at last, he’s lowered into the boat. Unlike the big ship, the little craft is heaving in the water. He opens his eyes, tries to look calm, dignified, like a man of his station. Anne and Mary are chatting away, oblivious, but he king has noted his fear and turned away, embarrassed. Another sailor catches him and releases him now from the hoist. He sits slowly down in the boat, breathing deeply the salt air. 

“What a lot of fuss, eh Crumb?” the king says, bless him, doing his best to console him at his loss of dignity. 

“I was just thinking it would make a painting, wouldn’t it? Unloading the ships, the king returning in triumph.The Marchioness in the saddle waving to her admirers.”

“When we embarked for the Field of Cloth of Gold it was a bad sea. Men were heaving over the sides, women spewing into their hand luggage. But you should have seen it, Crumb, the harbor full of ships with golden sails. Now THAT was a painting.”

“I Imagine so, Your Majesty. Would you have the artist paint the spewing?”

The king laughs and Anne turns her attention away from Mary. The king tries to explain the little joke. He, Cromwell, catches Mary’s eye and she smiles. 

+++

He rides ahead of the royal party, at the head of the baggage train up the steep, winding road to Dover Castle. He has left Richard and Rafe behind to make sure nothing goes missing. The docks are like a scene from Exodus, with handcarts and donkeys and servants carrying boxes and bags on their shoulders, wandering off in all directions. 

Their host, old Guildford, has not yet appeared. One of the Gentlemen of the Privy, Sir John Dudley, rides up with him to the Castle wall. Dudley is Guildford’s ward. They pass through the gate and ride across a green toward the Lord Warden’s lodgings. A woman comes out with a baby and stands in the shade of the heavy doorway, holding her bundle carefully out of the wind. Dudley hellos to her and spurs his horse, covering the last few yards at a trot. Dudley is off the horse before a servant can come forward to help him, looking every inch the dashing gallant that Henry’s games have proven him to be. 

Not wanting to interrupt the tender scene, he slows his horse. Takes his time, waiting for the servant to help him down. He stands back with the groom, patting the horse’s neck, pretending to be absorbed by a knot in the black mane. The couple move inside, out of the wind.

“Cromwell, come inside and meet my son,” Dudley calls, and he follows him in, removing his hat and bowing to Lady Dudley. 

“Very nice,” he says, smiling. The boy looks back and yawns wide. They all laugh. Lady Dudley hands him the baby--people are forever handing him children and animals-- and he weighs him judiciously as if sizing up a prize turnip. 

“It’s been a while, Dudley, but I think you’ve got a keeper here,” he says, gazing into the child’s blue eyes. 

“My father has been ill of late, Master Cromwell,” Lady Dudley says, taking the boy from him. “Otherwise he should have been down to meet His Majesty at the docks.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. There is nothing terribly pressing apart from the matter of the provisions.”

Lady Dudley hands the child off to its father who sits with the boy, bouncing him on his knee. She retrieves a small box from a desk in the corner and takes out a long piece of parchment. 

“We managed to fulfill your list two weeks ago. And we’ve restocked as needed since then. If there is anything further?”

“No, this will be all. Thank you for that. It could not have been easy keeping the look out for two weeks. I hope you did not worry unnecessarily.” He eyes her sympathetically. She looks worn and no wonder: a new baby, a sick father, and her husband away indefinitely. Still, she has managed rather well. He thinks of his daughter Anne and how she wanted to marry his ward, Rafe. She might have turned out something like this Jane Dudley: perhaps not quite as pretty but just as competent and reliable. Old Guildford is lucky to have her to look after him.

“My husband is a fine sailor,” she says with a pointed look at Dudley, who is quite absorbed in singing a song to his son. “I did not think he would board a ship if the weather was bad. But we did hear of lost shipping on the French side. I’ll just say, Master Cromwell, that I’m very glad you are here at last.”

“And having arrived late, I must beg my leave again. I have to make sure his Majesty gets settled in all right.”

“I’ll wake my father and we'll see you at dinner then?”

He nods, takes his leave of them, and before turning to exit, shakes Robert's chubby arm goodbye.

+++

There is a press of servants with baggage in the corridor. He catches a glimpse of Mary in the crowd. “Mistress Cromwell,” he calls. It’s the first time he’s used the name since Liz was alive. 

“Master Cromwell,” she cries, turning round to smile at him.

“A word in private, if you will,” he says, following her into their chamber. He gives Adelle a look. She departs but he supposes she will hang about outside the door, eavesdropping.

“What’s this word, then?” she asks, slipping her arms round his neck, dragging her hand on his rough cheeks. He’d had no time to shave. 

“The word is ‘baby’. I’ve just met the most delightful baby. And I was wondering--”

“You can’t be serious. ” She pulls back, withdrawing her hand,studying his face. “No. You have two children you haven’t even met yet, remember.”

“But a baby. That’s different. A fresh start.”

“Yes, it all sounds so easy. A baby. Why not? You don’t have to carry it and deliver it and mother it. You lot stroll in, bounce it on your knee, coo at it, and then leave town on business for a month.”

He sputters: “Now it’s true, I wasn’t around much when my children were small. But that’s the point. I missed out. I’d like another chance--”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Do I have to decide this minute? Where were you, anyway, when you met this life-changing infant?”

“At the Lord Warden’s house. The baby belongs to the Dudleys.”

“So she’s had it then, Jane Dudley? Girl or boy?”

“Boy.”

“Figures.”

“What? No. I was thinking I’d like a girl actually.”

“I’ll just order one up for you then, shall I?”

“Like you said. We don’t need to decide this right now. Think about it at least?”

“All right. No promises, but I’ll think about it.” 

He wants to go back to the way they were at the beginning of this conversation. Her smooth hand on his rough cheek. He liked that. But she is already busying herself with her cases. He calls Adelle in. To his surprise she’s nowhere to be seen. He calls again and she comes around the corner, smoothing her hood with one hand. Mary scolds her and then orders her to bring some hot water. “My husband needs a shave,” she says. 

+++

They mean to walk down from the keep to look at the chapel but they lose their familiar rhythm on the hill. Wordlessly, he releases her arm and she strides ahead, her skirts billowing in the wind, perhaps giving the guard at the gate a passing flash of her green stockings. He watches her follow a rabbit track across open ground to the precipice. He thinks of a couplet --an example of a feminine ending, appropriately enough-- though its origin is lost to him: “Catastrophic edge, the earth drops away/your chalk cliffs crumble/from the head of the bay.” 

“I thought we were going to look at the chapel,” he says when he catches up with her.

“Mm. We shall, but I couldn’t resist!” she says, still looking out at the sea. She turns and starts back up the hill. He groans quietly to himself. She is used to having her own way and something about this outing reminds him of time spent with the King, or finessing a willful child. Often it amounts to the same thing. 

The chapel is a squat old Norman church built half a millennium prior, disused, deconsecrated, and full of gulls’ nests and bird droppings.

“Needs work,” he says, wryly. She is standing with her head craned back in wonder at the light filtering in through the top most window.

“It’s beautiful, Thomas, isn’t it?” she says, turning to look at him at last.

“I had no idea you were so romantic,” he says, his skin crawling at the thought of sitting in one of the encrusted pews. 

“Well, now you do. And what’s more, so is Henry.” She is right, but it chafes a bit to admit that she knows the king better than he in some ways. He pushes the thought from his mind. “He will love the place and you know it. It positively reeks of Arthurian charm.”

“It positively reeks of something more tangible. Is that a dead deer?” he asks, pointing to a moldering skeleton in the corner. She starts and steps toward him, taking his arm again.

“It will have to be cleaned of course,” she says dismissively, as if she has ever scrubbed a thing in her life or has any idea what is involved in chiseling 500 years of excrement off of a stone altar. 

“It would take weeks and a regiment of men. And reconsecrating a church is no small matter. The Archbishop has to sign off on it for one thing,” he tells her, though he has no idea of the exact steps involved. 

“It’s no use, we will have to use one of the churches in town,” she says with a sigh. 

“The Lord Warden attends Saint John’s. We’ll start there.” Thank God she is capable of sense, he thinks, as they make their way out of the old pile. “It was a lovely idea though and, given a month, I think I could just about pull it off,” he says, patting her arm. 

They pick their way down the steep slope through the gate called The Snare. Saint John’s towers above the other buildings in the street. He notices a complex of pig sties in a field across from the church. If the wind shifts in the afternoon it could get very piggy. The king’s wedding seems destined to involve some kind of shit. They wait in the narthex. He looks around for an office or perhaps an attendant who will wait on them, but everything is silent and empty. Mary has a stillness that is suited to such a place. He is restless and kicks his toe at the base of a font before dabbing his fingers into the water. At the end of his patience, he is about to step into the sanctuary and begin hallooing when an altar boy appears. 

“We have very important business for your master,” he says. “Fetch him at once. Tell him the King of England is in need of his services.”

“Father Barnstable is ill,” the boy says flatly, apparently unimpressed with the crown of England. 

“Well tell whomever is taking his place that we are in need of someone to officiate a wedding this afternoon.”

“The Father took ill this morning,” the boy says in an exasperated tone, as if he can’t believe there are people unfamiliar with the intimate workings of his parish. “He sent a message to the Bishop but it might be a day or two till someone is sent.” The boy turns on his heel and begins to leave. He, Cromwell, stifles the urge to grab the boy by the ear and teach him some manners. This Father Barnstable could be ordered out of his bed for the sake of the king. Probably just hungover, the devil. But Henry fears illness of any kind. He would think it a bad omen. Would the smell of pig shit--now distinctly wafting in through the windows--- be a good omen or no?

“Look here, boy,” Mary says, stepping forward. “Don’t walk away while your betters are speaking to you. This man is the king’s advisor.” The boy stops in his tracks, pales, and bows to her. “Is there any other church that might perform a wedding on short notice?”

“Saint Mary’s. On Canon Street. You might try there.” The boy says it all quickly, hoping perhaps that with a prompt answer he will avoid further scolding. When none is forthcoming, he scampers up the back stairs. 

As they walk out into the bright, breezy day, he takes her hand and kisses it. “You were most helpful back there.”

“I could see you looking as if you wanted to cuff the lad. I thought it was best for him if I intervened.”

“I never cuff. Maybe give his ear a good tug though.”

She tightens her grip on his arm, sinks her chin into his shoulder briefly, blowing warm air through his shirt. 

“Saint Mary’s it will have to be,” he says, patting her head. “The name is at least promising.”

Saint Mary’s is a squat slab of a church, of the same era as the chapel near the castle but, thankfully, minus the animal occupants. The light coming through the top most window has much the same effect to his eye. 

“It will be a great honor for the parish,” Father Stevens, an elderly man with rheumy blue eyes, says when he’s been informed of the upcoming nuptials.

“It’s a secret wedding you understand. You are not to speak of it.”

“Oh yes, of course. I only meant that it will be an honor for us to do our bit for His Majesty,” he adds quickly, with a little bow of his head. The priest’s eye wanders over his shoulder. Mary is in the back of the church, looking at the confessional.

“Is that all? Is there no other service we can perform for you?” he asks, nodding in her direction.

“What? No,” he says, flustered. “We will expect you ready at half-two. The king and his bride will arrive by three bells.” 

They walk out of the church and into the bustle of Canon Street. 

“I thought Father Stevens very gracious. Accommodating even.”

“You barely spoke to him.”

“He had a kind face.”

“He is eighty years old if he’s a day. I should say he’s in his second childhood.”

“You think everyone simple who is kind.”

“Not true. I thought the Cardinal kind and he was far from simple.”

“Trust you to think the Cardinal kind. You should hear my sister tell it.”

“She wouldn’t be marrying the King of England in four hours if she had married Harry Percy. The Cardinal did her a great favor.”

“Four hours! Mother of God, I have a skirt and sleeves to run up. I need to buy fabric.”

“Can I be of help?”

“Yes, you can, actually. It’s a rare husband who is neither a scold nor a nuisance in a draper’s shop.”

They get directions to a reputable warehouse. He collars a clerk and soon has him following Mary with a slate while she makes a list of materials. In the end the list runs to several slates, not counting the notions. 

“Shall I have your father approve the notions? I hear he is expert.”

“You villain!” she says, swinging a bolt of silk damask (at five shillings a yard) at his head. He ducks, laughing, and makes his way to the counter to leave instructions to have the things sent up the hill. “I warn you, I know your trade top to bottom. If you cheat me, it will get back to the king.” The clerk looks suitably terrified and sends a man into the backroom to double check the order. While he’s waiting, he spots a pair of gloves. He picks them up, examines the stitching, the stretch of the leather; he sniffs them to determine whether the dye, robins’ egg blue, is of the sort that comes off on your hands. Satisfied, he walks them over to Mary. “Try these on.”

“Oh Thomas, they’re gorgeous. I love the color.” She removes the old frayed peacock blue gloves and hands them to him. He tucks them into his belt for safe-keeping. She slides the new gloves on and holds up her hands for inspection.

“The index is a bit long,” he says. The clerk has returned and is watching the exchange.

“My I?” the clerk asks, taking Mary’s hand in his. He removes the glove and deftly flips it inside out, marking it with chalk. “If you want these I can have them altered in a few minutes.” Mary nods enthusiastically and he disappears again into the back room. Mary beams. 

“New gloves at last! I will wear them this afternoon. They will look well with my midnight blue sleeves, don’t you think?” 

He nods. He can’t remember the midnight blue sleeves, but he figures it’s best to go along with the idea. The clerk returns, promising the gloves will be sent to the castle with the other things. 

They make their way back up the long ascending path, their bare hands linked together, both pairs of gloves tucked into his belt.

+++

Working in concert, the ladies finish the sleeves and skirt with time to spare. Anne is dressed and carried to the church with her ladies, riding side saddle down the hill, her brother and father leading the way. He has gone ahead with the king to watch and wait at the church door. It has turned cloudy and it is beginning to rain slightly.

Henry looks up at the sky and then up at Anne, as if waiting for her to descend from heaven. He picks Mary out of the train: the midnight blue sleeves. He remembers them after all. 

“Were you nervous, Crumb, before your wedding?” Henry asks, pacing in the doorway.

“Well, yes a little. It’s natural to be nervous, isn’t it? For the bridegroom.” 

“She’s so calm. Butter wouldn’t melt, I’d wager.”

“Perhaps she’s hiding her nerves. I’m sure she’s impatient to get on with it.”

“Don’t I know it! I have had no peace since you announced your wedding, you know.” 

“I hadn’t realized,” he says, apologetically.

“She’s very jealous of her sister getting all the well-wishes. Well! No longer, eh Crumb?” Henry says, patting him heavily on the shoulder. Sometimes he wishes the king weren’t quite so hardy.

Father Stevens plods through the ceremony. Henry looks in agony throughout. Anne is frozen, regal. Mary looks like she could use a nap or at least to sit down with a nice glass of wine and a biscuit. Lord knows he feels he could as well. At last it is finished and Henry takes a moment to embrace his new in-laws. “Brother! Sister!” he says. Mary curtseys obediently. He, Cromwell, hides his blush with a low bow. He catches George Boleyn out of the corner of his eye, pushed to the back, livid. 

+++  
Back in their room Mary announces that Anne is pregnant. Surely she’s not showing already, he asks incredulously. “No, but she spewed up half the morning. It was all I could do to get her down the hill.”

“Maybe it was just nerves.”

“She’s never been nervous a day in her life. She’s missed her courses as well. What else could it be?”

He wonders how this secret marriage will go down at home, with Katherine still married to the king. There will be a lot of work to be done before anything can be announced.

“Let’s hope it’s a boy,” he says, helping her off with her cloak.

“Perhaps you should have Jane Dudley rub her belly for luck.”

“Shall I call Adelle to help you?”

“No. I think we can manage if you undo my laces.” He steps in, eager to help with the undressing. So much more rewarding than the other way around. 

“Thomas, I wonder if I might have a word?”

“Certainly. And what is this word?” he says, echoing her earlier playfulness.

“Confession. I’m sure you couldn’t help but notice me eyeing the box at Saint Mary’s.”

“What could you have to confess, my love?”

“I’ve a month of Hail Marys to say simply on the merit of my cursing.”

He laughs. She does like a salty phrase now and again. And the things she says in bed…

“Well, why now? Why not wait till we’re home?”

“I can’t say exactly. Father Stevens, I think. A good confessing priest is a rare thing. You’ve got to weed out the lechers and prigs.”

“So you think this Stevens will keep his hands on his side of the booth?”

“Why don’t you come with me?”

“Oh no. No. I don’t believe in it. I said I wouldn’t talk you out of your beliefs and I meant it, but at this I draw the line. I’ll be damned before I ask some old fool to intervene on my behalf with God.”

“What could it hurt? What harm does it do to have someone help you through it? Someone understanding.”

He sighs. How can he explain that he has no plans to unburden his sins ever if he can help it? It’s one of the chief reasons he disagrees with the Church. These things should be private. She drops the subject. The next morning she is up early and down the hill before he’s awake. She returns as he’s breakfasting glumly in a dim, drafty room. She is radiant with her hike in the fresh air, and -- he supposes -- her absolution. She looks like a market trader who has struck a particularly profitable bargain. She’s gotten off light and she’s celebrating. She sits beside him eating heartily, gulping small beer, still a tad breathless from her walk. 

He feels miserable. Not for his sins. He is used to them. They are not exactly old friends, but familiars at least: his cohort. But he feels wretched because on this point, they disagree. On this thing, he is alone. And it is no small thing.


	2. London Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road from Dover to London holds intrigue and excitement for Cromwell and Mary.

“Oh that sound! It is worse than the cold.”

They are in bed, huddled together in their drafty Canterbury quarters. The wind and rain beat against the glass. “I don’t mind it," he says, "as long as I’m tucked in bed when I hear it.”

“Some bed this. Size of a coffin and almost as comfortable.”

“We seemed destined to go from one terrible bed to the next.”

“I guess it means we won’t get much sleep.”

“Oh I hope so,” he says and pulls her in for a kiss. She kisses him back casually, taking her time. If she can wait, so can he. He leans back, stroking her hair idly.

“What do you think of our host?” she asks.

“The archbishop’s secretary? He’s preferable to Warham, at any rate.”

“He reminds me of you a bit. He referred to Becket’s murder as ‘the unpleasantness at Canterbury’.”

“That was quite good. I could use that in Parliament. Refer to the King’s divorce as ‘that unpleasantness with Katherine of Aragon’.”

She laughs. “It’s bad enough that you refer to it as the King’s Great Matter. Makes it sound like a just cause.”

He is always a little shocked by her treasonous opinions. He can block them with his own mouth or change the subject. He opts for the latter. 

“What did you think of that show on the street today?”

“That poor mad girl? Nothing much really. It was curious that she seemed to know about the King’s wedding when it is something of a state secret.”

“Yes, she seemed to single you out as well.”

“Recognized a fellow mad woman, perhaps. Sometimes in London beggars cross the street for a touch. I’m an easy mark.”

He remembers that the Cardinal used to call her an easy armful.

“Perhaps, but I suspect there is more to it. It’s an old confidence trick.”

“And you know all about those.”

“As it happens, yes. You get your mark to trust you, single them out as unusually virtuous, ‘oh miss, you’re the only one who understands,’ that sort of thing.”

“How could she know anything about me, this Holy Maid?”

“That confession you made in Dover. Any chance it was overheard?”

“Well, you saw the set-up. The confessional was quite solid.”

“Solid enough that it had a hollow panel perhaps?”

“Oh Thomas! Such imagination.”

“Nevertheless, it is possible. You didn’t hear any strange noises during your confession?”

“No! Honestly, what is this?”

“I need to know, in general terms, what you confessed.”

“How about I tell you, in general terms, to mind your own damn business.”

“Right. I’ll name a topic and you tell me whether or not you touched on it in confession.”

“You really are pathetic.” She fumes and fusses with the covers, then rolls away to face the wall. He sits quietly, wishing they could go back to kissing. When will he learn? He places an arm tentatively on her shoulder. She doesn’t withdraw. After a few moments she rolls back over. “If you must know, I wanted to -- as a newlywed -- make a clean breast of things now that I’m married again.”

He bites his lip, determined to let her finish.

“I gave a rather long, totally vague account of my life these past ten years.”

“Ten years?”

“Yes, that’s how long it’s been since I went to confession. Before I married William. I certainly hope it was worth the trouble, this time.”

He smiles wanly. He hadn’t counted on this, on her honesty, and her trust. It makes it doubly hard to ask, but he has gone this far. “You didn’t name any names?”

“No, it isn’t like that. How can you not know how it works? You act as if you’ve never been.” He says nothing, she carries on. “You don’t say ‘bless me father for I have sinned with Tom, Dick and Harry’.”

“Who’s this Dick?” he jokes, hoping to lighten the mood.

She throws a pillow at him. He doesn’t duck, but picks it up and cradles it in his arms.

“But you kept the circumstances vague as well, then? No way he could tell you were talking about the King of England or your future husband?”

“I offered no details.”

He returns her pillow to her by way of a peace offering. 

“I’m glad to hear it. I’m sorry about the questions. Something about that woman makes my skin crawl.”

“Well, she did promise you would burn in hell.”

He shudders, remembering her bulging eye, and the way she poked her boney finger into his chest. He rubs the spot. It feels marked somehow.

“Don’t take it personally. I think she says that to all the boys.”

+++

**Allington Castle, the Wyatt family home**

“Come with me for a walk.”

“I’ve got some letters to work on. Richard was going to help me.”

“It won’t take long. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Well, then, how can I resist those terms?”

“You can’t resist. Everyone knows that.”

He follows her out into the gray, damp afternoon. At least they have a break in the rain. The paths are muddy, and he makes her promise to stick to the gravel. They pass through a diminutive gate, crossing a charming toy draw-bridge and a picturesque moat. A few feet more and she is off the gravel, prancing across the green lawn, following some ducks as they waddle down to the river.

“You promised to stick to the gravel,” he says, skidding to a stop on the slippery grass.

She laughs. “Honestly, Thomas, you are such an old woman sometimes. Worse. I never got half so much scolding from my mother.” Your mother is only five years older than me, he thinks.

“Maybe you should have. It’s going to cost a king’s ransom to keep you shod,” he says, pointing to her feet. She laughs again. He is only half joking. Her shoes are squishing and so are his. He hates squishing shoes.

They follow the ducks for a few yards, then join back up with a path; sodden as it is, it is at least not as slippery as the green. She leads him across a bridge to an island in the river. There is a bench set low in a patch of bergamot which, though past its bloom, still makes a dense cover. “This is rather nice,” he concedes, sitting down next to her. 

He pulls her close, meaning to kiss her. On a whim he plunges his face into her bosom, nuzzling his cheeks, rough with afternoon stubble, on the soft, yielding flesh. He pauses, half expecting a slap. She knocks his hat off and pulls his head down closer to her chest. “God’s blood, don’t stop,” she hisses in his ear. He smiles secretly: she can’t see his face buried where it is. Her enthusiasms always delight him. She scrabbles under his doublet at his shirt, pulling it untucked eventually. She reaches bare flesh, her warm hands searching out his back, pulling at his shoulder as she sometimes does in bed. His brain works in the background on the problem of the bench, the threat of interruption:they are only a few yards from a public path. The thrill and the fear of discovery. She feels it too. “Seems like old times,” she says when he comes up for air.

“Another bench. I swear to God, woman, you will be the death of me.”

It starts to rain again, drizzling slowly at first, then building to a steady drip. There is a fine silver net of drops on her hair: he touches them tentatively and they melt into her, darkening the blonde locks.

“We should go back,” he says, brushing aside a drop from her eyes.

“I said I’d make it worth your while,” she says, pulling at the laces of his codpiece. For all her expertise, she can’t win out against the cold rain. When hands fail, she leans over, her warm breath on his cock, about to take it into her mouth. 

“I won’t be able to control myself,” he says, not quite believing he is stopping her.

“I don’t want you to.”

“It’s just--” he stammers, blushing.

“What?”

“Must you add this to your clean slate?”

“You use your mouth on me all the time.”

“That’s different. That’s just good manners. There is an intention to go on from there to a more conventional--”

“Thomas, I honestly think the reason you don’t go to confession is that you think there is no intercessor in the world equal to yourself. You see Judgement Day as your big chance to shine. You are going to nail God to the courtroom bench with your arguments.”

“Who would you rather have argue your case, me or Father Whathisname?”

She sighs, defeated. “Can you please shut off that lawyer’s brain of yours for five minutes?”

“It might take longer than that,” he says, smirking. She grins wickedly, leans over again. Challenge accepted. She puts the flaccid length of him easily in her mouth, matter-of-factly. Her lack of urgency is outside the scope of his experience. Always before there had been a rush to complete the transaction. She purrs out a soft moan, causing a vibration in her throat. And dear God, the warm slick heat of her mouth… He is hard now, she must shift to accommodate him, and in doing so she looks up at him briefly: her face, placid and tender. A look that makes him close his eyes tight with guilt, face up into the rain, as he grips her head in his hands. She relaxes her throat and, like a trap springing open, he slides in deeper. The suction, the heat, the slick movement as he makes a series of tiny but violent thrusts, pull the last ounce of control out of him. He cries out, adding blasphemy to the slate. His slate. Far from clean. A long and crowded docket that awaits him one day.

+++

**Hever Castle, The Boleyn Family Home**

This time they’ve had no pause in the rain. His rooms are freezing. The fire doesn’t draw and there seem to be no servants to help. Things are warmer with the King. He stays there as long as he’s allowed but Anne wants to give her new husband a tour of the house and he, Cromwell, is not invited. Mary finds him, huddling near the remnants of the King’s fire.

“There you are. I need my three turns on the gravel.”

“I’m not up to it, love. I think I might be coming down with something. I have a tickle in my throat,” he says, opening his mouth in case she wants to inspect. She does not.

“I think the damage was done at Allington. Got soaked through if you’ll remember,” he teases.

“Don’t get excited. I really am only after a walk. Just a little tour of the grounds. We won’t be stopping.”

“You are not helping your case, woman.”

“Come now," she says dragging him by the arm. "You’ve got a very fit cloak for this weather. You will be fine.” 

They begin with the courtyard: the childhood rabbit hutch and chicken coop, now empty but for a squirrel or two who live there now; moving on to the moat where George lost a wager whether or not he could leap across the narrowest part of the channel.

“He fell in and was covered head to toe in green slime. The most awful smell. It took Nanny days to scrub it off him.”

He manages a weak smile as she shows him the tree house in the woods where she and Anne fended off George and Bernard, the game keeper’s son.

“Bernard. I haven’t thought of him in years,” she says wistfully.

“An old beaux.”

“Hardly. A proper little bully, he was. Of course we held our own. We used to all go swimming.”

“In the moat?”

“Don’t be daft. There’s a wide spot in the stream back in the wood. We all swam there. One day Bernard said that Anne and I could not swim, that we were girls and should cover ourselves.”

“And what did you say?”

“Nothing. We pelted him with mud until he was forced to retreat.”

“It all sounds lovely.” He tries to think of an anecdote from his own childhood cheerful enough for the occasion. He comes up blank.

“It was. We had the best childhood. We were the world to each other, the three of us.” 

The rain is coming down harder now. He draws his collar around his neck, smiling miserably. She looks at him with sympathy. 

“Poor darling. Let’s get you inside before you catch your death.”

They move briskly back to the house. A fire is smoking in the hall, half the party are crowded round it. The King and Anne have not yet returned from their tour of the house. Mary goes off in search of a servant to help with the fire. He pulls up a chair between the Duke of Suffolk and George Boleyn. “Damned drafty old place,”George grumbles.

“I’ve just been hearing about your exploits in the moat.”

George looks over, sneers, and says, “She always exaggerates that story. I made the jump, but I got a bit mucky.”

“I fell in a moat once at Greenwich,” Suffolk says to no one in particular.

“I did not FALL in the moat. It was a wager to see if I could get across in a single leap, a wager I won, I might add. But my sister, lying strumpet that she is, always tells her little comic tale,” he says bitterly. 

He can’t help but note the melancholy distance between Mary’s memories and her brother’s foul mouth. There is a pause in which he imagines putting his knife to his brother-in-law’s throat.

“Well, here you are with your feet under the table, eh Crumb? “ Suffolk says, patting him on the arm. “Married into the Boleyns one day, kin to the King the next.”

Boleyn looks from one to the other, glaring.

“Don’t remind me, Brandon. It’s been a bit much to take in one week,” George snarls.

Brandon, who hates Anne Boleyn as much as anyone in England, appears glad to have at least vexed her brother. He, Cromwell, has never liked the Duke of Suffolk half so much as he does at this moment.

+++

That night he retires early with a chill. Mary sends Adelle in with a hot water bottle for his feet. “Where’s your mistress?”

“Gaming at cards with her mother and brother.”

These Howard women and their cards. Dice. Now _there’s_ a game. He warms up enough to drift off. He wakes to the sound of creaking floorboards in the blackness.

“Mary?”

“Yes, go back to sleep Thomas.”

“You pace the floor. What worries you?”

“Worries? Nothing. I’m excited. To get to Austin Friars. Have the children meet you.”

“How did you get on at cards?”

“Mother won. Mother always wins.”

“George seemed irritable at dinner. Was he soothed by the game?”

“Oh that’s just George. His bark is worse than his bite.”

“Come to bed, my love. I’m freezing. That hot water bottle didn’t last.”

“Nonsense. It’s still hot to the touch,” she says, digging under the covers for it. She reaches up and places the cool back of her hand on his forehead. “You feel a bit feverish. I shouldn’t have dragged you out on such a day.”

“It was nice to see all your haunts. I enjoyed it,” he lies. “Anyway, it’s likely the damage was done at Allington, remember?”

“How could I forget.”

She climbs into bed and he curls up against her shaking. She props herself against a pillow and pulls his head onto her chest. 

“I was just remembering in my pacing, trying to distract myself I suppose, how I cried myself to sleep the first few nights I slept here.”

“How come?”

“I was scared to leave the nursery I suppose. It’s funny, but I blamed that Bernard I was telling you about. I thought because he’d noticed I was a girl that they had too. My mother and the others.”

“You hadn’t thought about it till then?” She strokes his temples with her fingers.

“I knew there was a difference of course. It hadn’t occurred to me what the difference meant. I remember laying awake at night, feeling my breasts, the hard little lumps in there, like rocks. I blamed those sad little buds for all my troubles. If Bernard hadn’t noticed them, I’d still be in the nursery. Strange, isn’t it, the way children think. And yet there is a warped logic to it.”

“Mmm,” he says, drifting. 

+++

The next day he is worse. His head is putrid and he can hardly swallow. Mary is down at breakfast when he is visited by his mother-in-law, carrying a tray.

He props himself up as best he can and croaks out a greeting. 

“Hush now, Master Cromwell, I have come to physick you.” She whisks in, leaving her tray on the edge of the bed. He looks fearfully at the foul-looking brews and a stinking poultice of onion. She pushes back the bedclothes to get at his feet. Her hands are warm and her touch is similar to that of her daughter. He tries not to get an eyeful of her breasts as she bends over to tie the poultice around his feet, winking at him as she does so. He is desperate to forget the conversation he had with Suffolk about Elizabeth Howard being the King’s first lover. 

Finding him sufficiently bound for the time being, she sets about gagging him with various concoctions. The most memorably bitter of these being something she calls “tisane of cone flower,” which seems to winnow a channel on its way down his gullet. She sits on the bed, holding the cup to his face as if he were a complete invalid, reaching behind him, leaning in very close to fluff his pillow. 

After the last potion has been dutifully consumed and he has thanked his torturer profusely, she leaves, mercifully. Richard and Rafe come in, stifling their laughter, asking if there is anything they can do to help. 

“If you have an ounce of affection for me, you will keep that woman out of here. And fetch Mistress Cromwell. And a chess board,” he says in a fierce whisper.

“We will have no trouble with the latter, but it might prove impossible to keep the mistress of the house from her favorite patient,” Rafe says archly.

“I don’t care what you have to do. Distract her. Bribe her. Detain her through trickery. Just keep her out.” 

“All right Master,” Richard says smiling. “It’s the least we can do.”

Christophe arrives and reports that none of the chimneys will draw. He has been to the roof (“The Monsignor needs a new lock on his trap”) and found that all the flues face leeward. Whoever built Hever’s chimneys was an incompetent and a swindler. 

Richard comes in with a chess set--incomplete--from the library. Christophe is dispatched to the kitchen to steal some salt cellars to stand in as white bishops. This talk of the clergy reminds him of his unfinished business at Canterbury. He dictates a letter to Richard instructing the local magistrate to have Fathers Bocking and Stevens brought in quietly for questioning. Christophe returns with the salt cellars and the latest gossip from the kitchen: William Stafford has been paid out and departed before dawn.

Rafe and Mary enter giggling at the sight of him. Using a small silver knife she wears round her waist--a present from her sister-- she cuts him free of his poultice. She holds the reeking mass at arm’s length and calmly walks to the window. Anticipating her, Rafe opens the latch and draws back the pane. She flings the poultice into the moat: a small splash is heard before Rafe closes the window again.

Mary pulls up a chair next to him. He begins setting up the chess board on the edge of the bed, between them.

“I’m probably going to regret this,” he says. He touches each piece, saying its name, demonstrating its function. She puts her hand on his, repeating the words, repeating the actions. A lovely warmth flows between their hands. Richard and Rafe slip out of the room quietly; he doesn’t notice their absence for some time.

“I’m sorry about my mother. It’s her way of welcoming you into the family.”

He nods. They move their pawns out. He explains that the pawns can move twice the first time, only once after that.

“I can’t imagine how your mother has managed with so few servants. I’ve never seen a great house so understaffed. Has your sister said anything?”

“Huh! She’s done nothing but complain of it since we arrived.”

“If it is a money problem I could arrange a loan.”

“Oh no, I don’t think so. It has always been this way. My father blames my mother. She blames him. It never ends and it never improves for long.”

He moves his knight out, she follows suit, shadowing him on the opposite side of the board.

“Would it be unwelcome of me, if I were to offer to send some servants to her?”

“Not unwelcome. But it’s been tried before. Anne, Henry, Uncle Norfolk: all sent servants. They stay a few weeks, or even just a few days, and then leave.”

He moves a pawn into place. She takes it with her knight, not noticing the trap.

“Christophe tells me the gossip downstairs says there is a ghost that walks the castle by night.”

He takes her knight with his bishop. She frowns.

“You’re not going easy on me.”

“I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

“I suppose not. You might pretend to be so distracted by me that you play badly.”

“You might do something to distract me.”

She smiles, moves onto the bed, leans in close and whispers in his ear.

“I’ll tell you a secret: there is no ghost. It is only my father who wanders at night. He walks in his sleep.”

“Well that might explain why some of the servants leave.”

“And my mother’s overbearing style of management explains the rest.”

He makes a hole for his queen. She has left half the board unguarded.

“Has your mother ever thought of tying your father to his bed? She seems handy enough with ropes.”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”

He laughs. “No, thank you. I’d rather go back to being physicked.”

She smiles, leans in again, and with a slow movement slides her bishop across the board to take his queen. 

“Now I’ve got you.You are done for, sir.”

“You’re supposed to say ‘check’.”

“Check.”

He moves his king to safety, grumbling. He is more distracted than he thought.

“Did I ever tell you about the day I met William Carey?”

“No.”

“It happens to have been the day I met Henry as well. It was at the Fields of the Cloth of Gold. I was brought into Henry’s tent and sort of deposited. There was this young man there, very kind and handsome I thought. That was William Carey,” she says wistfully.

The gambit is a cheap one, but effective. He feels his blood beginning to warm with jealousy. She moves her queen down the board to take his rook, leaving her king entirely exposed to his bishop. 

“Are you sure you want to do that? You need to protect your king.”

“Who cares about the king? He can only move one space at a time. The queen has all the moves.”

“You’ll forfeit the game.”

“I probably would have lost anyway. And this way I have fun doing it. The look on your face when I took your queen!” 

“You don’t care whether or not you win or lose, so long as you damage your opponent?”

“Something like that.”

“It’s a terrible strategy.”

“Maybe, but good luck trying to defend against it.”

She did have a point. He was closing in on her king, but his pieces were getting rather thin on the board. And there was no knowing what harebrained attack would follow.

“So what happened with William Carey?” he asks, testily.

“I married him of course. A week later I was sent to court and he was sent away on business. Unbeknownst to me I had been given as a gift, along with some plate, from Francis to Henry.”

He grunts, takes her rook. “Check.” She shrugs.

“Your precious Cardinal sat me down and told me the news: my marriage was a sham. But my father had his title and my husband was cleared of his debts, which had been considerable.”

He looks up at her. She is smoothing her dress, moving off the bed, back to the chair. She has gone beyond simple strategic distraction. She’s shocked him. It is the Cardinal’s involvement, of course, which has cut him. Something so much like a bawd that to say otherwise is an insult to reason. He sets the board aside, sweeping up the pieces, to give himself something to do with his hands. The turquoise of the Cardinal’s ring catches his eye. He stops and fiddles with the jewel guiltily.

“Oh are we done?” she asks coolly.

“I think so. For now. When do the children get here?” 

“Henry is due tomorrow. Catherine the next, or possibly a day later. Why?”

“I want to be ready to leave as soon as we can. This place. These people. I don’t think they do you any good.”

“You may be right. I’m sorry for what I said about the Cardinal.”

“Wasn’t it true? Why should you be sorry?”

“Of course it is true. I meant only to tease you a little and I’ve hurt you. If it makes any difference, he was very nice about it. And I’ve always been grateful that he told me the truth when no one else would.” His throat constricts and his eyes start to burn as he hears this.

“Mary, I swear. I’ll never use you like that. You have to believe--”

“Don’t say ‘never,’ husband. You don’t know what the future will hold.”

“If it holds that, I’d rather be done for.”

“This is very strange marriage.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because neither of us really trusts the other.”

“Mary, I do-”

“Don’t,Thomas. Just don’t. Even though you don’t trust me, I know you’d go to the devil for me.”

“I think I already have,” he says, his voice breaking half in laughter, half in tears.

She climbs back onto the bed, sliding against him, touching his face with her warm, slender fingers. “There’s hope for you yet,” she whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tigger-style tackle hugs to Onstraysod for her continued help and support as an editor.


	3. Austin Friars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cromwell's homecoming doesn't go exactly to plan.

They are only a few miles from Hever when the sky clouds and he a drop of rain. He eyes the wagon, loaded with his new family, protected from the elements by a canopy. He rides alongside.

“Have room in there for me?”

“It’s going to rain, isn’t it?” Mary says, leaning out to look at the sky.

“It already is. I thought the ride would do me good, but I’m not so sure now.”

“We’ll make room.” The driver stops and a groom takes his horse as he makes his way into the wagon, finding a place across from Mary.

He does not believe that she slept at all while at Hever. Now she nods in and out of sleep, eyes darkened and puffy with exhaustion, while the wagon dips in and out of ruts and mud holes. She is frequently jarred awake, and once they are all thrown about on top of each other. Mary and Catherine clunk heads. She scolds the girl who bursts into tears, then apologizes so profusely she begins to weep herself. He thinks he might be better off in the rain. 

They stop at an inn, the King’s Cross, for dinner. He thinks how appropriate the name is since everyone, including the King, is in a foul temper. Catherine is allowed to eat at table while Henry dines in a back room with Adelle. He watches her pick at her food, her chin jutted forward sullenly. She is the image of her mother in profile and he wonders how he will survive two such chins in his life.

“Catherine, do you have a preference to stay in the nursery or shall we give you a room of your own?” The girl looks terrified to be addressed directly. He adds a smile but that seems to make things worse. 

She looks to her mother for an answer. Mary nods in encouragement and the girl replies hesitantly: “I should like to stay in the nursery a while longer.” After a pause, in which Mary elbows her gently, she thanks him for his consideration. 

After this first conversation, such as it is, he notices her jaw softening by fractions until - by the end of the meal - it seems almost completely unclenched. 

After dinner the weather brightens and they take the opportunity to ride. The children ride mules and he thinks of the Cardinal, side-saddle on his ass, prancing along, keeping pace with the horses. He walks Mary’s horse for her while she rides, easing back in her saddle, her face turned up toward to the meager sun. 

The King rides over to them. “You look very well, Crumb. The picture of chivalry.”

“Thank you, your majesty. I thought I shouldn’t play the invalid card any longer.”

“Quite right. You do yourself good.” He trots off to encourage Suffolk who is taking the air on a very slow nag. 

After a few miles, he passes the reigns to a groom and rides his own horse alongside Mary. She is so quiet he wonders if she hasn’t fallen asleep.

“Tired?”

“Mmm, yes. But looking forward.”

“Catherine seems anxious.”

“She was not happy to leave the convent school. She is worried she won’t make friends.”

“She’ll be fine. As long as she gets her own back, she won’t have any trouble.”

“You make it sound rather rough.”

“When are children anything but rough? If she made friends in a convent school, she’ll manage Austin Friars just fine.”

Mary looks up to at the sky. The sun has gone behind the clouds. “It will rain again.”

“Maybe we should give up and get in the wagon before it starts this time. We’ll all be drier for it.”

Mary calls the children, who obey under protest, and they all pile in the wagon again. He makes sure to get a seat next to Mary. She leans back against him, warming his side. He is anxious to get home and get her into bed. 

“I’m hungry,” Henry complains.

“You should have eaten more of your dinner,” Adelle scolds. The boy’s eyes widen and he looks about to break into a full wail.

“Thomas, do you have any food?” Mary asks. He looks from Mary to Adelle to Henry. They are all waiting expectantly for his answer.

“Why me? Why do you always assume I have something to eat?”

“Because you always do,” Mary says. The others nod.

“Very well, hand me that bag,” he says, pointing to one of the saddlebags that Adelle has adopted as a cushion. He rummages in the bag and pulls out a modest -- by his accounting -- wheel of cheese. He breaks into it with his knife and cuts a small wedge for the boy. The cheese disappears down Henry’s gullet with hardly a chew.

“More please?” he asks, separating himself from Adelle. Henry crosses the small space and places a fat hand on his arm. He picks the boy up and sets him on his lap. With the movement of the wagon he has to be careful not to remove his own finger or run anyone through with his knife, but he manages to get through about a quarter of the wheel.

“This is a very important cheese, I’ll have you know,” he says to Henry as he works. “It is a diplomatic cheese for Master Eustace Chapuys, Imperial Ambassador.”

Henry nods, looking very serious. “More please?” he asks. Everyone laughs. Even Catherine manages a smile. 

 

+++

That afternoon they leave the rest of the party at Eltham Palace before making their way into the city to Austin Friars. Mary says goodbye to Anne. There is no weeping on either side. He sends Richard and Rafe ahead on fresh horses to make sure that everything is ready for their arrival. He instructs them to make sure the servants are ready to greet their new mistress, that the beds have been moved as per his instructions, and that preparations are underway for Mary’s feast. 

“Is that all?” Richard jokes before departing. 

“Mistress Williamson will have everything in hand. Just make sure to let her know we will be arriving in the next few hours.”

He sits back in the wagon, sanguine again. Richard and Rafe have never failed him. Things may be awkward at first with Johane, but he will make arrangements for her to hand things over to Mary. It is for the best that the Williamsons move along, anyway. He should settle some money on them, he supposes. Best to go through the husband, of course. 

As they enter London, he holds back the canopy and points out the sights of the city to Henry and Catherine. 

“That’s the Palace of Westminster, where Parliament meets,” he says, pointing at the familiar Gothic tower above the river. 

“Is that where you work?” Catherine asks. 

“Sometimes. And other places,” he says, thinking of the new session coming up. Nothing could have fired his enthusiasm for his highway bill like enduring this road trip in a wagon..

“And see that bridge? That’s the Tower. I have been commissioned to build an apartment there for the King.” He pauses, wondering whether he should say ‘your father,’ but opts not to. “And your aunt.” 

Just outside Austin Friars they pass Chapuys’ house. “He’ll be over wanting his cheese this evening, now that we’re back,” he says to Henry. The boy smiles in that way children do when they don’t understand the joke but want you to know they were glad to be included.

The guard at the gatehouse informs him that Masters Cromwell and Stedler arrived an hour ago. They make their way through the construction mess outside the house and pull up in the courtyard. The place is deserted except for a dog that wanders up and noses the wagon wheel before lifting his leg to it. 

“Well, someone is here to welcome us home anyway,” he says, making his voice as light as he can. He instructs everyone to stay put as he climbs out of the wagon. He makes his way down into the kitchen where Rafe is calming Thurston. 

“There is no game to be had anywhere,” Thurston says. “Not a decent fowl at this time of year in the city. Next month, maybe, but nothing just now--”

“Thurston, I’m home and I brought presents,” he says, stepping forward and handing Thurston a cloth-wrapped bundle.

“Master!” Thurston says, looking as if he might embrace him. “Thank goodness you are here.”

“What’s this you say about there being no game?”

“It is only too true. A bad year for hunting.”

“Nevermind, I‘ve many friends in the countryside. We’ll manage something. I thought we’d plan the feast for next week. Give everyone a chance to settle.” He points to Thurston’s parcel. “The herbs I promised, each one labelled, and a cutting from a plum tree. A very sweet variety. The gardener at the Exchequer assures me it is hardy enough for our climate as long as we plant it in a southern exposure.” 

He leaves Thurston smiling, motions for Rafe out of earshot.

“Round them up if you can. I’m going to bring everyone in through the main door. Have Mistress Williamson assemble them in the front hall--”

“That’s not going to be easy, sir.”

“Why ever not?”

“She left with her husband a week ago. They are living in Hackney, I hear.”

“Hackney! Good God. Who has been running things?”

“Mistress Mercy, I think. But it seems people have been shifting for themselves, or not at all.”

“Get Mercy and whatever staff you can to meet us in the hallway in ten minutes. I’ll have to stall.”

He makes his way, stunned, back out to the courtyard.

“Thomas, what’s wrong?” Mary asks, seeing his face.

“Oh nothing. A bit of a mixup about our arrival, I’m afraid. There’s been some unexpected turnover in the staff. Nothing too serious, but I’ fear things won’t be as grand as I’d have liked.”

“It is all right, my love. I am used to chaos when it comes to servants. Just show me to bed and we’ll sort it all out in the morning.” He takes her hand and helps her out of the wagon. His blood warms at the mention of bed. They walk in a little knot toward the house, Catherine and Henry clinging to their mother, Adelle following close behind with Henry’s cloak. Mary stops and takes the time to adjust Catherine’s hood which was blown askew in the wagon.

At last he can delay no more. He opens the massive door himself and ushers them through into the darkened hallway. The lamps have not been lit, though a maid -- he recognizes Amy’s stout shape in the dimness -- scrambles to light a lantern at the top of the room. Rafe helps Mercy down the stairs and she leans heavily on his arm. Richard stands with Alice and Jane on one side of the stairs. The kitchen staff have been mustered on the other. Mary walks past, everyone bows. It takes about ten seconds. He introduces Mary and Mercy and they curtsey stiffly to one another.

“You must all be exhausted, poor dears,” Mercy says, taking Catherine by the arm. She orders Thurston to send a tray up for the nursery. Alice and Catherine, about the same in size if not in age (for Catherine, he realizes, is tall for her age like her father), regard one another cautiously. Henry looks at Jane. She seizes him and hugs him. “Cousin,” she says. Henry looks up at his mother for assistance. She is busy sizing up Mercy, who is badgering a member of the kitchen staff to begin fetching in the baggage.

Adelle and the children are taken to the nursery while he decides to show Mary to their room. They walk up through the darkened house with lanterns as if it were the middle of the night.

“I’m sorry about this,” he whispers.

“About the darkness? Nothing you can do about that. Anyway, I’m getting very used to creeping through houses on your account.”

She is taking it rather well, he thinks, squeezing her hand. A few days earlier he had been offering to send her mother servants. He has half a mind to go up to the attics now and drag the rebellious loafers out for their reckoning, but the sight of Mary in the lantern light distracts him. HIs heart beats faster the closer they get to his bedroom. Not long now. It’s only been a week, eight days since Allington, but suddenly it feels much longer. When they arrive outside his bedchamber there is a mattress leaning against the wall, blocking the doorway. His heart sinks. He hands the lantern to Mary and begins to push on the mattress, a little mad with desperation, hoping his plans for the evening can somehow still be salvaged. He struggles for a moment before giving up, then sees a light in the passage. “Who goes?”

“It is me, sir, Amy.” She lights a lamp on the wall. “That’s better.”

“Can you lend us a hand here?”

“I’ll try, sir.” She hands her candle to Mary, who steps back. Together, he and Amy make some progress and the mattress slides forward an inch or two. Suddenly it lurches backward with violence and almost topples them.

“Someone is pushing from the other side, sir. You in there! Stop pushing! The Master wants to go into his bedroom!” 

Clarence, the boy who keeps his dogs, squeezes his head through the tiny gap between the mattress and the door.

“Sorry, sir. We were meant to take this bed out first.”

“It’s all right, Clarence. Carry on with your work.” They stand back as the mattress is heaved out into the hallway and propped against the wall. Inside the bedchamber the curtains are down and the bed has been disassembled. In the blue room down the hall, he can hear a similar calamity occurring as the second best bed is taken apart. Mary looks on the verge of tears, but then begins laughing.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, Thomas. I’m so tired. I just want to go to bed. Is there any place?”

“Amy, how is the yellow room?”

“It’s been vacant since Tuesday. The linens should have been changed. I’d better double check,” she says, disappearing down the dim hallway. 

“Perhaps while a bed is being prepared we could check on the children?” he says hopefully. Mary brightens at this prospect and they carry on with the lantern to the nursery. Inside, all is relatively peaceful. Catherine has been given a bed next to Alice who is entertaining her with a picture book. Henry has a cot near Jane. He is already tucked in and Jane is explaining the hierarchy of her various dolls to him while he nods politely at her chatter.

“I’ll leave you here, love, while I go sort out the bedrooms. Hold fast. I’ll get it sorted, I promise,” he smiles. He has begun to sweat. He tears down the hall, the lantern casting large, angry- looking shadows as he approaches the yellow room. Inside, Amy is up to her ankles in dirty linen while she strips the bed.

Back in his bedchamber, he helps Clarence and Javier carry some pieces of bed down the hall to the blue room. The blue room is a shambles as well. Meanwhile, Mary’s luggage begins to arrive. He directs it toward the yellow room. He stands there, head in hands as the suitcases are piled around him in the small chamber. 

“Thomas! I wish to speak to you,” Mary says from the doorway. She does not sound happy. He orders Amy from the room and shuts the door.

“Who is Johane Williamson?” she asks, folding her arms on her chest. His stomach lurches at the mention of Johane’s name. 

“She was my wife’s sister. And up until a week ago, she kept house for me.”

“Left in a hurry. Was that the change of staff you referred to earlier?”

“Yes. I shouldn’t have said staff, I suppose. She is family, really. I misspoke, but it was a matter of expedience,” he says, aware that he’s beginning to ramble.

She nods, calmly. “Adelle has had it, from good authority in the nursery, that the reason Johane Williamson left was--”

“Well if Adelle has it on good authority, why should we doubt it?” he says sarcastically. He begins to pace the room, ranting. “By God, these people move as if their feet are in treacle while working, but their tongues are always quick enough to gossip. Never fear, we will clean house tomorrow.” He stops and looks up at Mary, who is leaning on the closed door. Her expression has changed from anger to despair. He steps to her, reaches out for her. She blocks him, puts her flattened palm against his chest.

“You don’t deny it, then?”

“Deny what? You haven’t actually accused me of anything.”

“You haven’t let me!” she says. He shrugs, awaiting further questioning. “Was she in your bed?”

“It’s been over for a long time. More than six months.”

“Who ended it?” she asks, taking a step back from him.

“She did. Or, rather, Mercy did, when she found out.”

“Mercy! The poor woman’s mother found out! No wonder she left. The humiliation.”

“I had assumed she would go discreetly, after a time. Once you’d settled in.”

“And why did you assume that? Adelle tells me you sent her no letter, but instead sent the news of your marriage via your cook. A servant! The whole house knows and she is humiliated. What choice did you leave her?”

He has no answer for this. It is strange: not that she is so angry at him, but that she takes the other woman’s part. He can’t account for it. He stares down at his feet, willing the right words into his mouth.

“When, if ever, were you going to tell me?”

“It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

“Apparently it wasn’t a secret at all. You should have told me, Thomas. I would have understood.”

“I thought, since it was over, it was best to be discreet. If I would have sent a letter, it might have looked strange.”

“Instead you left her a list with your cook.”

“Well, when you say it like that it sounds absurd. No, it was understood between us. She knew I would remarry one day. We talked of it.”

“So you had an understanding about how it would work?”

“In a way, yes. Moving the beds. It was a signal.”

She shakes her head. “You are honestly surprised that she took offence at that, being asked to juggle your beds around for your new wife?,” There is hard laughter in her voice. She steps toward the door, as if about to leave, and then asks, “Is there anything else?” 

“What do you mean?”

“What else haven’t you told me? Affairs? Bodies in the cellar?”

He looks around, as if searching the room for answers. Nothing but a bed without linen and Mary’s baggage scattered about the place. There will always be secrets, he supposes. It’s a matter of deciding which he can afford to tell her and which she is likely to find out anyway. He takes a deep breath: “The girl. You will eventually hear about her. I should be the one to tell you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Jane is not really my niece, though we call her that. She is my natural daughter. I suppose. I don’t know for certain. Her mother always claimed that--”

“Start at the beginning.”

“There’s is not much to tell. Her mother worked at an inn that I frequented while traveling.”

“Frequented?”

“She and I were... We had an arrangement of sorts. I wasn’t the only one, but she wrote to me asking me for money, for the girl. I sent some in a letter. It was the letter that was found when the mother died. Jane was bundled down to London, delivered by some relatives, like a parcel.”

“And this is the little Jane I met? Who is so fond of Henry?”

“Yes, she’s quite sweet and well tempered. Like her mother. No beauty, but quite a brave, steady little thing. She does well here.”

“I suppose Liz just took this all in stride?”

“Not at first, of course. It was a shock to all of us. But Jane grew to be part of the place. And you can’t blame a child for its origins.”

“No,” Mary says tersely. She turns away from him, toward the door. “I’m going back to the nursery. Have this lot sent there,” she says, gesturing to the baggage.

“Yes, of course love. You’re exhausted. A good night’s sleep will sort you out. We’ll talk it over in the morning.”

“Don’t count on it, sir. Do you think you have set me up for a good night’s sleep after this?!”

“I suppose not. But given a bit of time--” 

“What? You’ll talk me round to it all? Like you did with Liz? No, I can’t be around you anymore tonight.” The door clicks shut behind her as she goes. He hears her footsteps fade down the hall. 

In shock, he sits down on the unmade bed. He remembers the days after Jane’s arrival and the wary look that came into Liz’s eyes. Locked out of his own room, he had tried presents: a glorious fur. Then another. After the first fur she had burned the letters he’d written during their courtship. After the second, she’d burned the letters he’d written since they’d been married. The second lot had hurt him worse. There were some good recipes in there. In the end there was no explanation, no bribe that could smooth things over. A few weeks later, she came to him, while he was eating his breakfast alone, and said that, if he wished, he could come back to their room that evening. Unasked, he started bringing Richard and Rafe with him on business trips. They could be her spies or not. He didn’t care, he’d never stray again. He’d learned his lesson. 

For a long time, he sits staring at the heap of Mary’s things, imagining throwing them out a window or kicking one of the trunks to pieces. There’s a timid knock at the door, his heart leaps. Could it be? A fresh rush of hope, but the door opens and it is only Amy.

“Do you still need the bed made, sir? Only I--”

“No. Get this lot out of here,” he says, his shoulders slumping in disappointment. “Have them taken up to the nursery.”

She picks up a bag and then another, fumbling, trying to lift too much at once.

“Have one of the lads, help, Javier or Clearance,” he says impatience creeping into his voice.

“They’re all gone to bed, sir.”

“Bed. Oh that’s nice. I’m glad someone has gone to bed,” He mutters springing to his feet, his nerves quivering back to life. “We’ll see about that!” 

Snatching the lantern up, he heads swiftly toward the attic, moving silently up the familiar narrow back stairs. He hears muffled laughter, movement as he approaches. It’s been months since he was up here, since he went round with a builder in summer inspecting the dormers for leaks. Sweat springs out on his neck. There is always a slightly tropical humidity in an attic, the effect of drip-drying laundry and too many bodies. He pushes open the door and steps into the narrow hallway. The low ceiling, the heat, the footy smell of the place comes at him a rush. A boyhood memory: safety, ringed with hunger and exhaustion. He walks past the rooms, one by one, a hush following him. As he passes the room shared by some of the boys, he hears giggling behind the door. He steps into the common room, a stifling o-shaped place whose middle is taken up with a massive chimney. Looking idly round, he takes hold of an empty clothes line, feeling the bite of the rope in his palm. Slowly, he winds it round his hand, getting his grip. With a sudden jolt he rips it from its anchorage in the wall. He could almost smile at the satisfying pop of the plaster as it gives way to his hand. Tiny bits of the wall rain down on the floor, and he watches them scatter, like a man in a dream. When he looks up again, they are standing round him, his men. He glares at them. Most are half dressed, some half-drunk, though dice have been secreted away in pockets, caps taken off and heads bowed as in church. No one speaks for a moment, then one of the boys, a giggler, stifles a laugh and his cuffed by Clarence. 

“Will one of you please tell me,” he begins in a low voice, moving the clothes line through his hands, coiling it like a whip, “what I have done to warrant this rebellion? When have you been beaten? Have the women been interfered with? Have I been late or mean with your wages? I am honestly at a complete loss.”

They look around sheepishly, heads eventually turn toward old William Spiggot, who steps forward and boldly looks him in the eye. 

“We don’t like Mistress Mercy,” Spiggot says, looking round at his conspirators, emboldened by a few nods. “We want Mistress Williamson back.”

“I see,” he says calmly, nodding, feeling a molten press of rage in his breast. “I suppose I’ve brought this on myself, really. I’ve been too familiar. Too easy on you. That explains why you feel you have the right to decide from whom you take orders.” his says, his voice steadily rising in pitch and volume. “YOU DON’T LIKE MERCY?!” he roars. They take a half step backward collectively, bracing for more. William Spiggot is repelled to the back of the room, his knees wobbling underneath him. One of the gigglers bursts into tears. It snaps him out of his rage. 

He turns and begins to walk down the hallway, pausing to say, matter of factly, “There is to be a feast in this house next week. It will be the most lavish, elegant feast this city has ever seen. You will work day and night to get the house ready. When the guests arrive you will stand silently, attentively to fulfill their every wish. And you are going to do this freely and with good cheer in order to make my new wife feel welcome. If I'm satisfied with your efforts, you will paid _after_ Christmas, not before." At this news, a few groans, but no one dares an outright protest. "By then I may be in a cheerful mood. If you don’t like these terms, you may leave. Tonight. There will be no references. No back pay.” He carries on walking down the stairs, then pauses again and adds, “I trust William Spiggot will relay this information to the women.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lynne for putting up with my last-minute tinkering.


	4. In-laws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas' new in-laws make for a challenging day at work.

When the ink runs dry, he scratches with the pen in vain, denting and scarring the parchment until he notices and stops. Sometimes he carries on scratching just for the feeling of making the shape of the letters. Today he swears and rages with his pen, writing her name amid a stream of filth before stopping, refilling his pen, and carrying on with the writ of attainder.

It is two days since she left him sitting in the yellow room. He has slept in his study. Rafe and Richard are nice enough to avoid her name and to pretend not to notice that he hasn’t shaved. They bring him work, which helps him forget: at least until the ink runs dry. 

He has taken his niece, Alice, aside at breakfast and asked if there was any word. Alice said that she lies awake listening to Mary turn and sigh. 

He has gone to the nursery door half a dozen times, at all hours, with all manner of excuses. Each time he walks away without knocking. Her meals are taken up on a tray. He goes down to the kitchen to inspect them afterward, to make sure she’s eating enough. He can never be certain: the servants are wont to steal a leftover morsel now and again. When he was a boy he made off with whole chops by secreting them away in his jacket.

“Is there anything else?” he asks Rafe, who stands ready to roll the parchment when it dries.

“Just the letter from Canterbury.”

“Ah, well let’s have that,” he says, pushing back his sleeves.

The hand is small and knotted so he moves to the window and puts on his spectacles. He only uses them for reading very small print. How like Thomas More he must look, unshaven and squinting into the morning sun to read. It’s only a matter of time before he takes to carrying them on a chain around his neck, as More does. 

It is much as he suspected: a network of spies around the diocese provide Bocking with information which he feeds to the girl for her “prophecies.” More concerning - a matter for the King, really - is the list of people with whom she has met privately. It reads like a roll call of the King’s enemies and rivals for the throne. He sits back, watching Rafe clearing up, rolling parchments, filing them away in pouches. There is nothing left for him, here. 

“I need to see the King. Will you come with me?”

“Of course, Master,” Rafe says. “Shall we go now or after dinner?”

“Now. It’s urgent.” Rafe nods, looking downcast, probably remembering repasts of bread and cheese eaten on the side of the road, huddled under their cloaks. “Very well. It’s not that urgent. We’ll go after dinner.” Rafe smiles.

+++  
The lamps are already lit when they arrive at Eltham. George and Thomas Boleyn sit next to a roaring fire in the Privy Chamber. 

“Cromwell, we didn’t expect to see you so soon. Don’t tell me my sister has thrown you out already?” George says with undisguised relish.

“I’m here on business. A matter of some urgency for the King.”

“Likely story,” George scoffs.

“The King is indisposed,” says the elder Boleyn. “Sit with us awhile, Thomas.” He shudders at the use of his Christian name, oozing out of the Monseigneur’s mouth. “We saw so little of you at Hever.”

“I was ill,” he says, pulling up a bench. “ A dreadful cold brought on by traveling.”

“Men in our time of life need to look after our chests in the winter. I trust my wife’s ministrations were helpful.”

“Indeed they were.”

“Tisane of cone flower! I’d rather be sick,” George says.

He smiles, remembering the bitter medicine. He leans forward and warms his hands at the fire. 

“A warm fire at last, eh son,” the Monseigneur says, a serpent’s smile on his lips. ‘Son’ is even more chilling than his Christian name. “But I suppose you have plenty at home to keep you warm.”

“God knows there were no fires at our place. When are you going to see to those chimneys, father?” George asks.

“I know a very reliable man for chimneys,” he says, glad of a chance to change the subject away from the warmth - or lack of it - at Austin Friars. “Say the word and I’ll have him sent out to you.”

“And will you pay for his services as well?” the Monseigneur asks peevishly. 

“If you are in need, I could arrange a loan.”

“Crumb, is that you?” The King says, coming around the corner in a dressing gown.

“Yes, Your Majesty. I hope I didn’t disturb you,” he says, kneeling. George and the Monseigneur are a little slow getting out of their chairs and the King has already motioned to them to stay where they’re at. 

“I didn’t think we’d see you till Christmas,” Henry says. The Boleyns exchange smug smiles. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve got some important business for you.”

Gentle Norris steps forward and helps the King off with his gown. He, Cromwell, has mastered the art of speaking to the King while his Majesty is being dressed: when to maintain eye contact, when it is best to study the jewel in Wolsey’s ring. The hose and codpiece are the most awkward and even a king must step behind a screen. 

“I continue to receive messages from Catherine,” he says from behind it. “She sends me shirts, gifts. There will likely be something at Christmas. My wife insists that this cease immediately. I know it must be so, but I cannot make Catherine see sense. I send her letters back unopened, her shirts returned unworn, but she will continue.”

“You wish me to persuade her to stop.”

“You are always so convincing, Crumb. Anne says that you could charm a snake out of its skin.”

“I’ll begin a letter at once.”

“You are more persuasive in person, I find.”

Kimbolton is a week’s journey round trip. Things should be blown over at home by then. 

“But what am I thinking?” the King says, his voice straining, apparently struggling with some item of his dress. “You will be needed at home. Can’t keep you away from your new wife so soon.”

“I am at your disposal as always,” he says, slowly. Something about the journey seems repugnant to him all of a sudden. “But perhaps… we could try a letter first and, failing that, there will still be time for a trip before the New Year.”

“Very sensible idea. Yes.”

He bows to the screen, which is absurd, but he feels that Henry could sense it somehow if he did not. He brings up the matter of the would-be prophetess at Canterbury. The King steps from behind the barrier, placing a protective arm on his shoulder. He hands him the list of people who have had private meetings with the so-called Holy Maid.

“Bishop Fisher? Lady Poole? Thomas More? These are some of our oldest friends,” the King says, sounding injured. “What are we to do?”

“We will keep an eye on them, for now. Make sure we have all the rats before springing the trap.”

The King nods, gravely. He bows and takes his leave, hoping to get a start on that letter to Catherine before bed. On the way out, the Monseigneur calls: “You’ll find my daughter more pliable if you give her a beating now and again!” George laughs. He grits his teeth and smiles on his way past. He finds Rafe outside the Chamber, chatting quietly with Anne. 

“I am sorry to rob you of your companion, Marchioness, but we have work to do yet this evening.”

“I was rather hoping you would exchange places with your handsome clerk for a moment, Cremuel,” she says. Rafe turns purple at the compliment. 

“Run along to our rooms. Get my writing things out. I won’t be long,” he says and Rafe nods, appearing relieved for the opportunity to escape.

“Sit, and we will have our chat.”

It is rare for him to be asked to sit at court, rarer still to be asked by Anne. She likes to leave her audience standing as humbly as they can manage. 

“You see how it is. My father and brother. Henry Norris, even Francis Weston: these men, these puppies! They come and go while I, his wife, must wait outside.”

He nods silently.

“I must rely on my father and brother for a report of what goes on in there. You can’t imagine the useless gossip I receive.”

Useless gossip seems about right. “Does the Marchioness wish to know more of the affairs of state?”

“No. That would be improper. Only... bring any news which may be of use to me before anyone else. Including my husband.”

She is shortening the lead. Very well, he will come to heel.

“Why should you wish to have the same news twice?”

“My father and brother wouldn’t know what is of use to me if it fell on their heads. My husband has a habit of putting the picture, no matter how dreadful, in a very pretty frame. I notice no such habit with you, Cremuel.”

“Very well, I will do my best to bring you reports. Only you must not ask me to let my service to you supersede my service to the King. He must come first, you understand.”

“Yes, yes, you’re very loyal,” she says peevishly. And then, sighing, she adds: “Everyone knows that about you, Crumb.” She pats his sleeve familiarly, as the King sometimes does when he wants a favor or wants him to forget a slight. The King does not apologize but he softens his manner like this on occasion. Anne learns so quickly. She will have the run of the King’s affairs by May at this rate. 

“How is it my sister manages to do without you this evening?” she asks, turning to him with an arch look.

“I had an urgent matter for the King.”

“And naturally it couldn’t wait. You trust her uncommonly well. Left alone with all your handsome young men,” she says, a laugh in her voice. “Oh well, you brought the handsomest with you. That was wise. You are not so dull, after all.”

He doesn’t know quite where to look or what to say. He knows she is only teasing, trying to get a rise out of him, but there is no response that won’t give him away. He begins to stand and she grabs his upper arm, holding him in her grip. He looks down at her. The smile is gone. She is serious. Collected. “Marchioness?”

“Whatever it is that she has done, you must forgive her. She loves you. You must know that.”

“Done?” he says, knowing she sees through him. Possibly has guessed the real truth. 

“Don’t play the fool, Cremuel. She must have done something to cause you to leave home on such a blustery evening.”

“As I said--”

“Yes, an urgent matter for the King. You said.” She releases him with a sigh. He is not across the room before the King is out of his chamber and she has rushed into his arms. Had Henry walked in a minute earlier! he thinks as he walks back to his rooms, trying to blot the incident from his mind. He makes a note to be more careful around her in future. Stay on the other side of the room as much as possible. 

+++  
Rafe has gone to bed, but has left the writing things out as asked. He banks the fire high, anticipating a long night ahead. How does one begin to ask a desperate woman not to play her last card? Perhaps that is why he dreads Kimbolten:the unpleasantness of the task. But he has been asked to do unpleasant things before and not shied away. The thought of the wintery journey, the miserable food at indifferent inns, perhaps? And after all that, the promise of a cold reception and the disappointment he will bring. It is an almost unbearable combination of factors. He’d best write the most persuasive letter he can manage. 

“The King wishes you to know that your messages and gifts have not gone unnoticed by him,” he begins, collecting his thoughts on paper. He never uses vellum for correspondence. It’s best to leave one’s letters easily consumed in a fire. “He is not insensible to the difficulties you face. His situation demands, however, that you desist in sending further intimacies. Particularly, he requests that you make no gift to him at Christmas. If there is anything within my power which I might get for you, to make you more comfortable or more at ease, please let me know and I will send it with all speed…” He hesitates about that last sentence. He should avoid making any promises. How to phrase a promise so that it looks like a promise but is not binding as such? He is a lawyer, this should be second nature by now.

“You have received a blow. Your entire situation is an injustice. You have every right to be angry. Consider, however, that your anger may not best serve the King, the nation, or even yourself. I have in my power to make you as comfortable as you could wish. If only you would relent a degree or two, be forgiving of the weaknesses of men. In remaining so firm of purpose you destroy not only what you claim to love -- your King, your country -- but that which God has given you, your glorious self, as well. We are taught to look upon martyrs as heroic. But God does not love a self-martyr. It hurts me to see anyone act so foolishly against their own interest, and self-preservation…”

He signs the letter, but does not seal it. Sometimes it is best to sleep on a piece of writing, let the cooled temper and the light of day do their work. As he rises from his seat, he notices an engraving of Vulcan on the wall. Perhaps someone’s idea of a joke: put the blacksmith in the Vulcan room. The god in the picture is naked but for a piece of cloth which drapes by some mysterious force across his loins and hangs in the air over his shoulder. No smith in his right mind would go into the forge so unprotected, nor wear something so loose and likely to catch fire. Vulcan is frozen in mid-swing, his massive hammer (too long by many inches) poised to strike a blow. The body is idealized in the Italian-style, muscle piled atop muscle, not a scar to be found. It is a body that never tires or falters in any way. If it weren’t so laughable, he would envy it. 

He crawls into bed. Rafe snores gently from the trundle nearby. Does he dream of Anne? He hopes not. It would be best if Rafe could be spared painful, fruitless attachments. 

He thinks of Vulcan, married to Venus, ensnaring the goddess and her lovers in a mesh of his own forging. He has ensnared himself in his own net. His Venus is blameless, though almost everyone assumes the opposite. It is an injustice. The words of his letter spin round in his mind. He should write to Johane, make her an apology, try to right things at home. He has almost made up his mind to all this when he remembers Anne’s hand so firmly on his arm. She seemed to delight in the risk. Somewhere deep down he can almost acknowledge it now, after the danger has passed: it was thrilling to him as well. Like those first hours with Mary in the cupboard. He should take his own advice about painful, fruitless attachments.

These women, grabbing at him, dragging him in all directions. What do they want from him? Why should he care about stubborn Catherine in her armoured dress? And Johane, who has caused him nothing but grief of late? Anne and her manipulations, sweet enough when she wants something from you? And her sister? What right has she to lock him out? Like Liz. First Liz, then… Mary. He has managed to push the name out of his mind all this time and now it fills his thoughts so that it crowds out all others. He slides into sleep, her name on his lips, wondering if she ate enough at dinner. He had forgotten to check the tray before they left. 

+++

An hour before dawn he is awakened by the humanlike cry of a peacock on the lawn. From the window he can see the dark outline of the bird, getting ready to show its feathers as soon as it is worth the effort.

Back at his desk, he lights a candle from the embers in the fireplace. He picks up last night’s letter and holds it close, squinting in the dim light. Treason! He crumples it up and throws it in the fire. Mary would probably love it. He might use some of the arguments in person if he ends up having to go to Kimbolten. He re-writes the letter, leaving most of the first paragraph: “not insensible,” “must desist,” padding it out with a few of the empty assurances and half-promises which eluded him the night before. Confident now, he signs and seals it. He takes out another piece of paper, writing to a neighbor at Austin Friars, an inquiry about some vacant property and the possibility that it could be rented for the Williamsons. He offers to pay the first month’s rent to show he is in earnest. 

He brings his candle through and begins to dress.

“Master, what time is it?” Rafe says, stirring from sleep.

“Early. Get up. We’re going home. We need to get there before Mistress Cromwell takes her breakfast.”

Rafe looks surprised but says nothing, only yawns and stretches.

As they are preparing to depart, they meet the King in transit from one bedroom -- Mary Shelton’s, if his mental map of the palace is correct (it usually is) -- to his own. 

He bows. “Urgent business at home, Your Majesty. I beg my leave of you.”

“I am sure you do have urgent business,” the King says teasingly. “Have you the letter for Catherine?”

He hands it over. The King holds it, fingers the seal. “Would it be more effective coming by royal messenger or as a private communique from a friend?”

“The latter I think,” he says, imagining the expectation raised by the King’s colors and the inevitable disappointment when the origin of the letter is discovered. 

The King hands the letter back to him. “God’s speed in your business at home, sir. With luck, I shall not see you till Christmas,” Henry says, extending his hand. There is a moment when he wonders if he should take it as a friend and shake it. He bends, kissing the ring, remembering himself at last.


	5. Eels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble at Cromwell's pauper's dinner leads to an unexpected solution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Onstraysod for her continued help with editing. 
> 
> This chapter contains graphic depictions of the dismemberment and preparation of eels for eating.

The day comes up hard with frost. A blinding white sun rises behind them, casting mad shadows over the frozen fields as they ride. He drives his horse as hard as he can while Rafe struggles to keep up. The younger man slows his horse too late for a sun-softened slope. He, Cromwell, hears the scream of man and animal, stops, and trots back. Rafe had hung on through the slide and the horse rises shakily to its feet. After that, they travel as slowly as the conditions demand, though it is almost torture.

His stomach turns over as he enters his compound. He dismounts and waits for the groom who is crossing the gravel at a half run. He fiddles with the strap on his bag, adjusting it, calming his nerves.

Thurston hullos to him as he comes down the steps into the kitchen. He orders his breakfast and asks to see Mistress Cromwell’s tray. While waiting, he produces a scrap of paper from his bag and scribbles: _My lady, I beg you meet me for truce talks on neutral ground. I await you in the dining hall. Yours in hope, T.C._ He rolls up the note and places it in the middle of her tray. 

His meal is sent up to him in the dining hall. He paces the length of the chilly room, stopping to nurse the meager fire with bellows. An old hand at the pump, he has it blazing soon, but nothing warms the massive oak chairs that sit around the table. He breakfasts with relish, hope giving him an appetite for the first time in days.

He is finishing his meal when he hears a light, familiar footfall outside in the hall. The sense of eagerness and fear put him in mind of that first night on the bench, nervously fingering his velvet in the dark. The door opens and she steps in wearing a somber dark dress and starched white tucker at her neck. Her eyes are red rimmed with tears or exhaustion. They stand regarding one another for a moment before he remembers himself and offers her a chair. They sit stiffly opposite like enemies at the treaty table.

“I heard you’d gone.”

“I came back.”

“Oh.”

“I wanted to see you. I need to speak to you,” he says, looking down, twisting Wolsey’s ring nervously.

“ I’ve been here all along.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Can we start over? Try again?”

“That depends. What is your offer?”

“My offer?”

“You promised a truce. What are your terms, sir?”

“Ah, yes. To the point.” He smiles though she does not smile back. He hands her the letter regarding a flat for the John Williamses. She looks at it blankly, hands it back.

“What else?”

“I would settle some money on them. A loan on gentle terms, made through John, of course.”

“Everything proper for the sake of appearances.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. What else?”

“Catherine and the boy, added to my will.”

She furrows her brow and looks away. “I wasn’t expecting--” Her voice cracks. He hardly planned on it, himself, thinking of it for the first time on the ride in from Eltham. But there it was now. He could not take it back and found that he didn’t want to.

“Does it please you?”

“It does.” She turns back, eyes full. He stands, crosses the space between them in a step. She leans forward, putting her head in her hands. He reaches down, pulls her up by her elbows, embracing her with his whole body. And then it breaks free: the tide of guilt and anxiety flows out and unmoors him. He floats there in her warmth for a minute, breathing into her hood.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I was terrified. Thought you’d left me.”

He shudders, thinking that he’d nearly grabbed at that mission to Kimbolten. 

He pulls back from the embrace, releasing her. He reaches up and cups her face in his hands. He is about to bring his mouth to hers when he hears someone at the door. Out of habit or instinct, they spring apart. 

“Master, forgive me,” Richard says sheepishly from the doorway. “You are required in the kitchen.”

“Good God in heaven, what is it now?!”

“Thurston is threatening to quit. To leave this very day. He has hung up his apron and packed his knives.”

“I seem to have brought the servant trouble with me,” she says ruefully.

“He does this once a month,” he says, and she covers a laugh with her hand. He reaches out and touches her sleeve.

“Thomas, go. See to Thurston. I’ll be in the nursery when you are through. You needn’t knock.” She takes his hand and squeezes it. Richard looks politely away.

Things are uncommonly quiet down in the kitchen, with only the sound of Thurston’s helpers audible, clacking away with their knives. Jacques looks up as he enters.

“Where is he?”

“In back, master,” Jacques says in French. 

He goes through to the larder where Thurston is folding a pile of aprons. “I brought these with me, it’s only right I should take them.”

“Must you leave?” he asks, looking around the dim, airless room. 

“I can’t work under these conditions. Mistress Mercy is down here half a dozen times a day, complaining about the salt in the soup or the toughness of her joint.”

“But that has always been so. I remember a time when you went out of your way to please her.”

“That was before she was in charge. Now, nothing is right, ever. She blames me for her mistakes.”

“Such as?”

“There was not enough mutton ordered last week for the pauper’s meals. I sent the order to the butcher as usual, but she insisted on making adjustments, for cost saving she said. Sir, we cannot make mutton stew without mutton. So in a pinch last evening, I thought to make pies with carrot and turnip and less mutton. There are no turnips to be found anywhere in the city. The green grocer says it’s too early, something about needing a frost to harvest. So this morning she comes down to complain about last night’s ragú being too rich, and I tell her about the turnips and she says to stew the venison.”

“The venison is for my wife’s feast.”

“That’s what I told her but she says that’s not happening, and I say the master never said, and she said you were too busy to be bothered.”

“That buck was shot by John Dudley and sent to me as a wedding gift. She’ll have it stewed over my dead body.” He walks out into the kitchen, Thurston following. The paste for the pies has already been rolled out in preparation. 

“What about some kind of fish pie?”

“Fish in a pie?”

“I used to have it when I was a boy. They sold them down by the docks. Called it ‘sea pie’.”

“What kind of a sauce?”

“Oh you know, a fisherman’s stew, but thicker.”

“Reduced?”

“Right, reduced.”

“I think I could manage that.”

He sends Christophe out to the fishmongers with orders to bring back whatever is plentiful and fresh. Thurston quietly puts his apron back on and takes his place between the two hearths, ordering his assistants to fill a large pot for a fish stock. Crisis averted, he heads upstairs to find Mary. 

Adelle meets him at the nursery door, tells him that Mistress Mercy called Mary to the gallery a few minutes ago. He leaves, but not before reminding Adelle, “You and I need to have a chat, soon. Set up some ground rules. There will be no more hiding away, taking sides against me. Remember what I told you before we departed Calais. I was serious.”

She curtsies and says, “Yes, sir.” 

Mercy and Mary are in the gallery, overlooking the courtyard.

“Thomas, thank goodness,” Mary says, crossing to him. “Your paupers are getting restless outside. See how they wander about the yard. That one was at the main door only a moment ago.”

“That’s what comes of having rabble about the place,” Mercy says, stepping between them. “Ungrateful lot if you ask me. You spend too much on them as it is.”

“Mother Mercy, calm yourself. It’s all under control.” Just then a shout drifts up from the courtyard, followed by the sound of raucous laughter. He turns to go, but Mary follows him, puts a hand on his arm. 

“Can you not let it go just for today?” she asks as they round the corner out of Mercy’s sight. “Tell them to come back tomorrow when you’re better prepared.”

“No. It doesn’t work like that. You don’t tell the poor not to be hungry today.”

“Surely you’ve done enough for them. There must be fifty people down there. What if they riot?”

“I don’t think they’ll riot. Anyway, it’s been sorted.” 

“I know it’s important for you to maintain your image, Thomas, but--”

“Is that what you think? I don’t want to lose face?” He stops walking, turns to face her.

“Well, then tell me.”

How can he explain it to her, his easy touch: she, whose own childhood was so idyllic that she cried to have it end? How to explain to a person who’s never known want what life is like for the majority of her fellow man? He thinks of the Biblical tale, of his namesake. The wounds. The proof is always in the wounds.

He stops, takes her hand in his, raises it to his lips and kisses it. He takes her fingers and places them on the monstrous knuckle of his left little finger.

“Feel that bone? It healed wrong. That was from blocking a hammer blow to my skull.” He drops her hand, mimics putting his hands protectively to his face. She reaches out to him in sympathy. He’s not done yet. He takes her hand again, places it on a ridge in his scalp. “That was what happened when I couldn’t block the blow fast enough. Thankfully there aren’t many scars. Children heal remarkably well. But you can see why, when my father would get drunk, I found it best to leave home for a few days till he sobered up. And how it was that I often slept rough, not knowing where or when I’d eat next.”

She’s gone quiet, turned away.

“Love?”

“That’s why... That’s why you can’t bear to let these people go hungry even one day,” she says, welling up.

“Yes. Why are you crying, my love?” 

“Because you will not.” She follows him downstairs. “What can I do?”

“Nothing. It’s sorted, I told you.”

“You should send someone out there to calm them down.”

“I’ll go. If you will come with me.” A quick look of terror flashes across her face, but she nods and takes his arm. He guides her down the stairs and out into the courtyard, where a fire is burning and tables have been set up under the shelter of the gallery above. 

“My friends, I am sorry we are late with your food. There was a small problem with a lack of frost and the turnip crop.” That gets a small laugh from one or two of the country-looking lads. 

“But if you remain patient a little longer, we will have a special meal for you in celebration of my recent wedding to this lovely lady.” An appreciative noise, from the men especially. 

“What is it?” yells a fresh boy at the back.

“Sea pie.” The reaction is mixed. A few seem genuinely pleased, and a few groan. He shrugs. Mary smiles tightly, knuckles white on his arm as they head back in.

He leaves her to return to the nursery and goes back to the kitchen to check on the progress of his sea pie. There is a commotion as Christophe enters with a massive bag, wriggling at his back. He drops it on the floor and the black head of an eel writhes free.

“Eels. Hundreds of ‘em. And they’re still alive! How are we going to get that lot made up in time?” Billy says, turning to Thurston in panic.

“I do not understand,” Christophe says to him rapidly in French. “The fishmonger told me they were dead.” 

“They are dead, probably,” he answers in English. “They can carry on moving for hours.”

“I cannot cook a thing if it’s still moving,” Thurston says.

He, Cromwell, grabs a cleaver and picks up an eel. He pins it to the counter, feeling it move beneath his hand like the snake he held in Italy. His instinct is to release it, but he squeezes it tighter and then swiftly removes the head with a violent smack of the cleaver. The crowd of kitchen help jumps back as eel blood, a black ooze, spurts out onto the counter.

“We need to get the skin off,” he says, gripping the neck of the now headless eel, holding it up for all to see. Billy steps forward and grips a loose piece of skin, tugging it off in one piece like a stocking. Daniel takes a long, thin knife and guts the eel. Sarah, the girl who lights the fires, removes the guts and puts them in a bucket for the dogs. John chops the eels into pieces and carries them to Thurston, who is waiting to cook them in a broad pan of hot fat. 

From there, they form a gruesome line, each working their assigned task. Sarah comes in at the end and carries away the head and bones to the stock pot, now boiling on the fire. Thurston thins his stew with stock and cider before pouring the filling into one of the massive waiting crusts.

They have made three pies this way and are working on their fourth when Mary arrives, her hair covered with an old piece of linen, wearing one of Adelle’s wool dresses. Thurston steps away from the fire and bows. He runs to the pantry and brings back one of his aprons. She dips her head so that he can put it around her, then ties it in back. She is put in the assembly line next to Jacques who is filling pie tins with paste. Jacques explains to her, in French, how to seal the lids on the pies by pinching the edges and rotating the pie as she goes. 

He sets down his cleaver and watches her for a moment. She is lost in her work, flour on her hands. She brushes a hair from her face, leaving a streak of white along her chin.

“Master! Eels piling up over here,” Billy says, grinning. He turns back, picks up his clever, and goes back to work.

+++  
He orders basins brought up to his dressing room for his ablutions. The first one is blackened in seconds, the next holds out a bit longer before it too is fouled and whisked away. They form a brigade, like men putting out a fire, handing off basins, nine in all before his skin is somewhat his own again. Oil of lavender is applied. He sniffs: he can still detect eel underneath. He strips, sponges off, dabs some lavender in his pits before putting on a clean shirt. 

It’s still day, he notes, walking through to their bedroom. The sun has only just dipped below the dome of St. Paul’s, leaving a red streaked sky above the dirt and smoke of the city. He draws the curtains. That helps: now at least it’s dim in the room. Anxious, excited, he approaches the bed, running his hand over the smooth white quilt they bought in Calais. Mary has had the bed hung with off-white drapes which makes the whole thing look like a cloud. He touches her foot through the quilt and is greeted with the sound of a soft snore. Not willing to give up hope entirely, he climbs in. 

“You awake?” He leans back against the bolster, sinking in.

“Mmm.” She rolls over and puts her head on his chest. There’s time, he thinks. The whole evening.

+++

They move in sleep like dead eels in a bag, acting out of instinct, the body in motion while the spirit has moved on. They cling blindly to one another, limb to limb, hand to knee, nose to back. They are heat sensing, instinctual things: hardening, groaning, stiffening in response to stimuli, unconscious in the primordial warmth of their bed. _Their bed._ He no longer knows which bed it is. The switch happened, it did not happen, it does not matter. The sheets from Calais are smooth and cool and the down underneath so dense that it rises up and isolates them as islands that come together in the night and break apart again in minutes or hours. She sleeps, he thinks, like no one has ever slept before. She is a champion sleeper, on benches and hard ground, perhaps honed in her Hever girlhood stalking like Diana in the woods, slaying gamekeeper’s sons and noblemen alike with her weaponry, then stretching out like a doe to take her rest on a bed of moss. He loves how she sleeps. He is a devoted observer of the sounds she makes, the soft rhythm of her breath, and the precise weight of her head on his chest. She folds into shapes suggestive of sex or death and he can only be dragged along in her wake, a pale imitation of those deep and perfect slumbers. To sleep like a baby, they say: not the earthly baby that kicks and huffs and cries for milk every few hours, but the unborn baby that swims in the womb in an endless perfect motion of growth and rejuvenation. 

He is exhausted from the past few days of insomnia: the long nights in his study listening to the friary bells dance through the hours. On and on he sleeps: through dinner, through supper, finally waking before midnight, starving. He wonders if there is some leftover sea pie or some cold joint of mutton to gnaw. He lights a candle in the dim emberlight and tiptoes out of their room, down the service stairs and into the kitchen. The lights and the fire are long gone, but the residual heat of cooking for twelve hours lingers. The flagstones in the kitchen are warm under his bare feet like the floors of the Roman baths. He heads through to the larder, feeling giddy about raiding his own stores, a residual dream from a time when his belly was never full. The penalty for being caught now would only be a scolding from Thurston. 

He has a start when he opens the pantry door, seeing John Dudley’s buck hanging there, looking blankly at the ceiling. Its eyes still shine in the dark. A childish fear hurries him as he selects a fat slice of ham, a loaf of bread, some dried apricots, a jug of small beer, and the remains of his diplomatic cheese. He sneaks back upstairs, unmolested by cooks or the spirits of the forest dead, and sets about tucking into his treasure in his dressing room, his cloak thrown round his shoulders. 

“Thomas, is that you?” Mary calls from their room. 

“Yes, of course, love.”

“Are you eating in there?”

“Yes,” he says, swallowing a mouthful. “How did you know?”

“You always have food.”

“I don’t really,” he says, crossing through carrying the tray. “It only seems like that because you have collected anecdotal evidence. You only remember the times when I have food, never the times when I don’t.”

“But whenever I want food, you always have it,” she says, propping herself up on her elbow. “Ergo, you always have food.”

“It’s too late for your logic, woman. Budge over.” He nestles in next to her and begins feeding her bits of apricot and cheese. She eats like she sleeps: it’s all or nothing. She is never a little peckish. Never a little anything, really. 

“May I have some bread?”

“That depends. Can you eat it without getting crumbs in the bed?”

“Good point. Better not risk it. Ham then?”

He cuts off a slice for her and hands her another apricot. “They’re nice with the ham.”

She props her bolster against the bedpost, leaning back, munching ham with a sigh.

“Not very seductive this. Eating ham.”

“Do you think I need seducing?”

“Only a little.”

“I don’t like to mention it, but you’re the one that fell asleep.”

“How many hours were you at your ablutions? I lost track of the time.”

“It wasn’t easy to get the smell of eel off.”

“No, I suppose not,” she says, laughing. 

“Any more?” he asks, offering up the last piece of ham.

She shakes her head, leans back, dropping the sheet as if by accident, exposing her naked breast to him.

“Alright then,” he says, setting the tray on the floor beside the bed, wiping his fingers hastily on a napkin. He crawls across the bed to her and lies back, his head on her breast. She reaches down, grabs a handful of his shirt and begins to pull it over his head. He sits up, pulls the shirt free, wads it up and tosses it to the foot of the bed. 

He leans back down, about to kiss her, aware that their lips have not touched since the hasty peck as they left their drafty room at Hever. Her lips are firm and wet, dear God; she pushes back at his mouth with her tongue, like that first night in the garden. He feels his cock stiffen and his hand rests on the curve of her belly, feeling the soft flesh rise and fall with her breath. She reaches down, takes hold of him, pulling back the foreskin, eliciting a groan. His hand roves down further to her thigh, which falls open. She uses her free hand to guide his fingers inside her. For a few minutes they lay tense, kissing deeply, their hands engaged in a minute struggle that sets off tremors inside him. He breaks the kiss and sits up, panting. He withdraws his fingers from her; dear God, she whimpers. She releases his cock, a moment of regret there, but he carries on, taking hold of her leg just behind the knee. He lifts it to his mouth, kissing the fleshy place, moving up her thigh, placing rough kisses there. She is still propped against the bedpost: he can see her wanton expression, see her nipples erect in the candlelight as his mouth moves nearer to her secret part. He takes his time, watching her writhe. He pauses, breathing heavily, and when it seems she can take it no longer, she grabs him by the ears and drags him to her center. 

He plunges his tongue in as deep as it can go, breathing in the briny essence of her, then pulls back and sets to work with alternating suction and flicks of his tongue on the button of flesh at her center. 

“God, Thomas. Fuck me,” she says, pulling him off of her, this time by the nape of his neck. She sits up, grabs his cock in her fist and guides him inside her. Everything tightens and she grips his shoulders, thrusting up so that the weight and force of both their bodies cracks down on that button. She releases him for a moment, gasping, before saying, “God, yes, again,” and “fuck me.” But it is her, he thinks. She is fucking him. She maneuvers under him, straining, poised, tightening and bucking ever harder, and he is maybe five or six thrusts at it before she is spent and laughing, loosening, floating beneath him. It is all he can do to pull out in time. The baby is still being negotiated: best not think of it now as everything is warmth and oozing.

With her soft, small hands she grips him again. The slick, sliding warmth - the strength of her hands - and the look in her eyes is laughing and careless, and she takes her time, no hurry, no worry. She is remarkably strong, he thinks, as she pulls at him. She fucks him: that is as clear as her blue laughing eyes. He has never once fucked her. She is always, always in control, and he doesn’t care. There is something about that feeling of being helpless and under her power that undoes him. He comes hard into her hand, oozing out onto her belly. She smiles up at him, and he suddenly feels self-conscious, just briefly. But she never looks away, never seems embarrassed, only gentle and sleepy. He sits up and fishes his shirt from the foot of the bed, using it to mop up her stomach and himself. She is already drifting, rolling onto her stomach; she pulls him over her like a cloak and they lie like that, rolled up together, sideways on the bed.

He thinks he will not sleep again so soon, it is too early, not even yet midnight, and he has been in bed for hours. But her warmth and steady breath, and his face in her hair, are so soothing. He finds, waking with a start, that many hours have passed and his arm is asleep over her and his feet are sticking out from under the covers. She wakes too and they silently shift round, right side up. He kisses her cheek. She breathes good night and they sink back into the bed, buoyed up on an ocean of feathers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All facts about eels and eel preparation are correct to the best of my knowledge and ability to do internet research. 
> 
> A note about the use of the word "turnip," which was just coming into use at this time. It's equally possible that Thomas Cromwell would have referred to them as "rapes" especially when speaking to country folks, since that was an older name for the same vegetable. You can probably guess why I went with "turnip." In general I've tried to follow Hilary Mantel's stated policy of staying close to the period language (not using words or phrases that didn't exist) without making the reader's head hurt.


	6. Cromwell's Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cromwell might be the smartest man in England, but there are half a dozen women who run rings around him, and most of them live in his own house.

When the silk houses lie open to you, when you walk upon carpets that other men would hang on their wall, when the wool traders flock round you to be sorted into lots by the tightness of their weave, when a milliner fumbles his wares as you approach, when there is nothing you can’t buy: then, and only then, will you know what it’s like to be Cromwell, to be with him, to be one of his women. “Cromwell always keeps his women well dressed,” says a draper’s wife to her friend from her perch above the trading floor. He looks up, spots her, and - from this distance - reads her lips. Is she one from Mercy’s list? No, it is one like enough to her, the same sharp eye, but married now to a wine merchant. At least she’ll never be thirsty. 

The goods require a second wagon, so one is hired and they move on to the jewelers. The best are Conversos:recent converts fleeing the Inquisition. There is a rumor that he, Cromwell, is a Jew because he moves among them so easily that Wolsey sent him to Italy to find a rabbi to rule on The Great Matter. He returned with the ruling (Cranmer added it to his pile) and a half dozen musicians for the court that Henry now keeps under special license. But these, the unlicensed, live a kind of double life as he does, as all the Bible men do, waiting for the knock on the door in the middle of the night. He keeps a couple of Conversos at Austin Friars -- Diego and Javier -- who are so good and gentle with horses. Perhaps that’s why he and Mary are ushered without question into the workshop and back to a bench where the best goldsmith in London waits to measure her finger. A man approaches with a bag of uncut gems and she points to a rock she likes and they all laugh at her wit. Rattled, she points to another, an emerald, and is praised for her exquisite taste. She is shown a drawing of different shapes and she picks one for her stone while the goldsmith slips a series of little brass rings on and off her finger, settling on the one that is comfortably loose but in no danger of being lost.

“Let me see that ring,” the goldsmith asks, pointing to Wolsey’s turquoise. He works it off and hands it over without hesitation. 

“Turkish?”

“Syrian.” The goldsmith nods. “You should let me do something with the setting. It hides the best part of the stone.”

“It’s an old fashioned ring, but I keep it this way for sentimental reasons.”

The goldsmith shrugs, hands back the ring. It is was never a ploy to drum up trade. The man has commissions to keep him busy for months including a jeweled collar that he is having made up for the King. The goldsmith shows him the progress on the collar, a heavy filigree inlaid with jewels. Mary looks around at the bench, picks up a powerful lense saying, “May I?” And the goldsmith nods. She holds it up and it has the effect of making her eye monstrously huge. He can see that there are tiny, gold-colored flecks in her iris. His accountant Thomas Avery would have forbidden the marriage if he’d known. 

“You’ve never been in a workshop before?” the goldsmith asks her.

“No. It’s fascinating. So tidy and well-organized.”

“She’s used to having wares brought to her,” he, Cromwell, explains. “At court.”

“Oh, traveling peddlers. The worst cheats. You are better off going to the source.” She nods in reply. 

As they are leaving, the goldsmith’s wife comes downstairs and embraces him. 

“Dona Mendes, I’d like to introduce you to my new wife, Mary.”

Mary smiles. “Charmed,” she says with an easy curtsey. 

“Master Cromwell,” says Dona Mendes, “your kind invitation arrived yesterday. May I take the opportunity of accepting now?”

“Yes, of course. Sorry the notice was so short. It was a whirlwind courtship.”

“How romantic. You are a lucky woman, Mistress Cromwell. London has lost its most eligible bachelor.”

“I’m just beginning to see that,” Mary says,smiling. He turns purple as they continue to talk in this way. He supposes he must endure it. Women expect to be able to embarrass a man now and again.

Back on the street, Mary takes his arm and he hands her up into the wagon. “Whatever you do, Thomas, don’t tell them I come from a long line of traveling peddlers.”

+++

John Williamson comes to see him, is shown into his offices, made to wait a full hour in a chilly anteroom. He can hear the man’s wracking coughs from where he sits at his desk. Finally Rafe takes pity and says, “Will you not see the man, before he dies in one of our chairs?”

He puts aside his work -- he is gathering spies to put in the houses of all the families on Father Bocking’s list -- and Rafe helps Williamson through, easing him into a chair by the fire.

“I’m sorry about the wait, my good man. This new post, it demands much of my time. And there are, as ever, my old commitments as well. My practice. Parliament. “

Williamson nods as if he, too, knows the burden of Parliament.

“I am here, sir, at your request. I should have thought you would see me sooner,” he says, drawing himself up in his chair.

“Yes, you honor me by attending to my request. How is the new place working out?”

“Oh it’s very good. Though the windows face east and, in the morning, the sitting room is impossible.”

He nods. It was ever this way with John Williamson. Nothing good enough. Poor Johane. “Well, I don’t wish to keep you long, sir. And what I have to say will be to your advantage.”

“Oh,” the man says eagerly. Greed will out. Everytime. It’s sad, really. But there it is.

“I would like your wife to return to Austin Friars for a few weeks. Just until after Christmas. Don’t look like that, sir. She may return to you in the evenings. She is to come and instruct my wife in the business of running this household. Nothing more. As for my part, I will be here -- as you see me-- or, rather, over there,” he says, pointing to his desk, “deep in work. We will never see one another or speak for any reason. That is my solemn pledge to you.” He passes a slate to John Williamson who writes out a long figure with shaking hand. It’s outrageous, of course, but not as bad as it might be. “Very well,” he says. He whispers in Rafe’s ear and the young man comes back from the safe with two small, heavy sacks. John Williamson is sent back across the Friary laden with gold.

+++

On the evening of the feast they stand in his study with pages of plans spread out on tables before them, the corners weighted to keep them from rolling back onto themselves. Mary peers over his shoulder on tiptoe, listening as he talks to a handful of guests. 

“The office, as you see, will be converted into a chapel, two stories high, with stained glass in the rear to take in the light from Throgmorton Street. This front bedroom will become a porter’s lodge, and the new entrance will be built here. All this,” he sweeps his hand across the drawings of his neighbors’ buildings, “will become the garden.” 

“What will become of your neighbors?” asks Margery Vaughn, who has attended the feast alone while her husband is away on business.

“Most have been bought out already. A few stragglers can be moved. I have a man who assures me it is feasible to put a house on rollers and take it where you like.” 

This last pronouncement elicits a few murmurs, but an awed silence soon settles over the group. He continues. “But the plan for the new kitchens is what I am most eager to show you. The buttery will move over here,” he says, pointing to a squat shape on the edge of the as-yet theoretical gardens, “to make room for a large, central larder accessed by all three kitchens -- for the plan includes a full pastry kitchen as well -- by means of an additional corridor along the back of the house. We will move my pauper’s meal to the new main yard where there will be seating for one hundred people and, as you can see, this new larger kitchen will be needed to meet the demand.”

He thinks along these lines for all his houses, though his new wife thinks Great Place in Stepney is charmingly dilapidated, for she had stayed there when it belonged to the Colets. Still, the chimneys are dreadful and he has a man for chimneys. If he can do this for one house, why not for all? Indeed, why not all of England? What could he not do with the King’s purse and Parliament’s seal? Housing and feeding the poor would be a matter of doing, of bricks and mortar, of glazing and organized plans. 

He has endured being forced to help carve up the Cardinal’s property, watching Wolsey’s dreams of universities picked apart by greedy nobles, and he has waited quietly, setting aside the ill-gotten assessor’s fees in hopes that the money might be put to some higher purpose. Where the cardinal amassed palaces for personal use, he sees centers for men to gather -- like they do at Austin Friars -- but instead of fifteen rooms he will have fifty, something like an institution. 

“I am only just getting to know this place,” Mary says, sounding sad.

“Well, Mistress Cromwell, it will be some years before this is completed and you need worry about moving,” he says, thinking how remarkably quickly she has become a fixture in her new home. Her stand on behalf of Johane Williamson, and her one hour stint as pastry chef, have earned her such a legendary status among the servants that if he wants anything done quickly, he only needs to add the phrase: “Mistress Cromwell would be pleased if this were done by such and such a time.” 

Bonvisi comes late and leaves early, but not before communicating the news that their mutual friend, Frescobaldi, has fallen on difficult times in Italy. “Thomasi, he has many debts and no one to collect.” It’s been a long time since he had to take down a door with his shoulder. He wonders if he could still do it. He gives Bonvisi a look of warning, which goes unheeded.

The conversation at dinner turns to his post as Master of the Jewel House.

“It’s a curious thing,” Miles Coverdale says, his breath fuming with Cromwell’s best wine,”that a king should be required to adorn himself so strenuously. I’ve found it’s best to adorn oneself with learning and wisdom.” Across the table, Mary’s eyes roll ever so slightly. 

“This is fine talk. You will put me out of work and our friend, Mendes, as well with such notions.”

“Luckily for you both there are no end of men and women who want nothing so much as a new ring or a necklace.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Dona Mendes says indignantly. “What’s wrong with enjoying beauty?”

“Ah, but there’s a question. Is it the status or the beauty that attracts them?” Margery Vaughn asks.

“A king must concern himself with status, of course, but Henry has an eye for jewelry, for paintings, for fine cloth,” he says. “He has a natural taste.” 

“Is there any beauty equal to a fine strand of pearls on a lovely throat?” Don Mendes asks wistfully.

“You’ll get no argument from me there,” Coverdale says, nodding to Mary. “But a man’s abilities will out, whether or not he is richly decorated.” 

“And what if he has no abilities?” Dona Mendes asks.

“That’s precisely my point. He will be shown for who he is.”

“If one man chooses to wear rings on every finger, and another chooses a fine pair of gloves, what is the difference?” he, Cromwell, asks. 

“Gloves! Don’t speak to me of gloves,” Mendes complains. “‘Don Mendes,’ they say, ‘my new gloves won’t fit over my ring. Can you fix it?’ Does it not seem a better solution to change the gloves and not the ring?”

“A ring is a kind of promise. It should not be tampered with for petty reasons,” he says. 

“In the end, it is just a thing,” Mary says. “Promises are all in the keeping.” It is the first time she’s spoken in a while, but it seems to end the conversation. Game, set, and match, he thinks.

+++

He has received a letter from the Queen. To most men this would be a momentous occasion. To him, it it is an occasion for an upset stomach. He breaks the seal, scans the contents. It is not as bad as he’d feared. She is gracious -- “My dear sir,” -- almost accommodating: “I received your kind letter.” She is up to something, he thinks, tracing his finger over the tiny, perfectly-formed hand as if there might be something of her he can read through his fingertips. He may yet need to go to Kimbolten. For now, it is enough to show the King that she seems to yield to suggestion.

Adelle is shown into his study, and he puts the letter from the Queen away in his desk. She looks more haughty and sure of herself every time he sees her. Bullying clearly isn’t working. He has yet to try being nice.

“You have served your mistress well for many years. And I’m pleased to see you fitting in here at Austin Friars.”

She nods. No curtsey. No ‘thank you, master.’ He frowns. 

“Please, sit down with me a moment, by the fire.”

She plunks down, staring just past his head.

“I’m not going to ask you about anything you might have seen or heard in the nursery while your mistress and I were at odds. Is that some relief to you?”

She looks at him coldly. “There is nothing to tell of that time anyway. Unless you wanted me to count her tears. Her sighs.”

Well, she is a dab hand at the drama. “Alright, Adelle. It’s alright. Your mistress has forgiven me, but it seems you have not.”

“What does it matter if I forgive you?”

“I suppose it does not. You are going to do what I ask anyway, else I will put you out.” He can feel, as he speaks, a bit of the old Putney coming back into his voice. “You know that.”

She nods again. Face still impassive.

“Look, I’m not going to ask you to betray her confidence. I have a very specific job for you. One to which you should have no real objection. And for which you’ll be richly rewarded.”

“I can’t be bought.”

“I’ll double your salary. You’ll be the highest-paid lady’s maid in England.”

“What do I want with money? Nothing to spend it on. My mistress provides for everything.”

“Once more, I must remind you that your mistress only provides for you because I provide for her. And you can save your money, Adelle. Retire to the country. Get your own lady’s maid to boss about if you like.”

This seems to affect her slightly. He can see her eye begin to dream, the hint of a smile at the edge of her lips.

“What is it? This job, then? Not that I’m agreein’.”

“I only want you to tell me what goes on in a room in my house on the days Mistress Williamson comes to see my wife.”

“You want me to spy on them, Mistress Williamson and my lady?”

“Nothing of the kind. I want you to sit in the room, listen to what they say -- and how they say it -- and then report back to me. As simple as that.”

“Spyin’, eavesdroppin’, it’s all the same no matter what you call it.”

“Well, will you do it? Will you be the richest lady’s maid in England, or will you be London’s newest beggar this evening?”

“That’s the deal?”

“Yes,” he says, standing, brushing himself down, preparing to walk away.

“Very well," she says, drawing herself up like a grand lady, "I’ll do it.”

+++

As he sits in his study a fortnight after Mary’s feast, Stephen Vaughn is announced. He rises and embraces his friend.

“We didn’t expect you back so soon,” he says, leaning on the taller man’s shoulder for a moment. 

“It was a surprise. My business concluded earlier than I would have liked.”

They clasp hands and he feels the supple leather of Vaughn’s gloves against his skin.

“Speaking of surprises,I hear from Margery that you’ve gone and gotten yourself married!” 

“It was a sudden whim, but it’s turned out rather well,” he says, showing Vaughn to a chair by the fire.

“Come now. Cromwell’s whims are as other men’s well-thought out schemes. You never do anything without half a dozen sound reasons, public and private.”

“You flatter. I assure you, I went to Calais with no such intentions.”

“Well, it was certainly accommodating of the Duke of Norfolk to die while you were there,” Vaughn says with an arch look. 

His throat constricts ever so slightly at this comment. Vaughn couldn’t possibly…

“You see through me as ever. I knew there would never be another opportunity with the lady. I had to act before her family regrouped.”

“And rumour has it that you are lately made brother to the King as well.” 

“You know I can’t comment.” He smiles. Vaughn is fishing. Well, let him. 

“What am I thinking? I’ve come bearing gifts,” Vaughn says, reaching into his pocket and handing him a small cloth-wrapped bundle.

He runs his hand over the cloth, a tightly woven wool from Copenhagen. Good color: a deep red. He unties the bundle, glancing up at his friend who waits eagerly. It is a small silver bottle, very fine casting, no visible seams. 

“It’s not empty,” he says, shaking it. “What’s in it?” 

“Give it a sniff,” Vaughn says.

He uncorks the bottle and raises it to his nose. “Aqua vitae! This is a wonderful gift.The King has nothing so finely wrought. Perhaps I could procure another for His Majesty?”

“As it happens, I picked up several for my own use and I might be induced to part with another,” Vaughn says coyly.

He takes a pull from the bottle, feels the liquid burn happily down his throat, warming his chest. He hands the bottle to Vaughn who takes a drink and hands it back. The air between them is perfumed with caraway.

“The Danes carry them in their garters, just so,” Vaughn says, pulling back his cloak to reveal his leg, indicating with his hand where the flask might ride on his upper thigh. He stares at Vaughn’s leg, long and broad like the trunk of a strong, young tree. Their eyes meet for a moment before he looks away, taking another pull from the bottle.

“I miss our walks, Thomas.” 

“Does Margery not walk with you?”

“It is not the same, sir. She has not your gift for conversation.”

“Oh she seemed to hold her own just fine at dinner last week. And for myself, I have more walking than I can possibly use.”

“The lady is indeed as spirited as her reputation would lead me to believe.” Vaughn laughs heartily, no trace of bitterness. “And conversation?”

“She has a fine mind. She beats me at chess. Though she cheats, of course.”

“Of course,” Vaughn says, a smile in his voice. “If I had not converted you, I think the lady would have. Which somewhat lessens my triumph.”

“But we do not convert others for our own glory, surely? At any rate, your triumph is safe. The lady is not of an Evangelical bent.”

“No? But her family are all famously so.”

“Yes. She alone retains the old ways. And what’s more, I have sworn not to interfere. She is free to pray to idols day and night if she choses.”

Vaughn looks grave, “Do you not fear for her soul?”

“In essentials, no. What does the rest matter?”

Vaughn looks away, offended, adding after a moment:, “I do not think I could marry as you have.”

“Do not mistake me, Stephen. I’ve risked everything for our cause. I’m still on side. And, what’s more, I am at last in a position to do something about it.”

“But don’t you fear that she might… -- forgive me, I must speak plainly -- that she might betray you and us, all that we’ve worked for?” Vaughn looks pale, distressed. He is a man too used to charm and flattery to handle much truth. 

“I have staked everything on her, and I do so with no doubts about her loyalty,” he says, as much for himself as for Vaughn. He pushes away thoughts about Mary’s confession, how close she came to falling into Bocking’s network of spies. “She is in a kind of flight from her family. I have given her refuge. It would be churlish of me to make further demands on her. We have nothing to fear from her.”

“Then I will pray for her. Ask God to bring her into the fold.”

“You have my permission to do so.”

“You don’t join me?”

“When it comes to my wife, Stephen, all I can do is thank Him.” 

Vaughn looks away for a moment before saying quietly, “You have the true spirit, Thomas. And I am the petty accountant.”

“Where would we be without accountants, eh?” He says reaching out, putting a mollifying hand on Vaughn’s arm, as the King sometimes does with him.. “I could not live without my Thomas Avery.”

“Margery says the lady has two children. Rumour has it--”

“I know what the rumour is.”

“Is it true?”

“Oh, I’m quite certain it is. She says so, and has nothing to gain by lying because the King is unlikely ever to recognize them as his own.” He stops. He must not confirm what his friend already knows about the King’s marriage.

Vaughn nods sagely. This is a dance they’ve always done, first around the Cardinal, now around the King. 

“I’m glad you stopped by, Stephen. I need your help in a delicate matter.”

“Oh?”

“I’m sure Margery has filled you in on my domestic crisis of a few weeks back.”

“With Johane?”

“And Mercy as well.”

“Mercy never approved of you and Johane?”

“To put it mildly. And now she punishes Johane by favoring Mary. I hear from my wife’s maid that Mercy sat in a room with her daughter for an hour only addressing Mary.”

“I don’t understand why Johane is here to begin with. I should have thought you’d want to be shot of her.”

“I do, but my wife, Stephen, has never run a household of any kind. She has been at court her whole life. And this is no ordinary house.”

“I should say. It’s more like an inn.”

“Liz often complained that it was and it has only gotten worse. “

“So you want Johane back?”

“Only for a time. A month or so. To train Mary to manage things.”

“Can you not train Mary yourself?”

“I don’t know the day-to-day workings so well as Johane and I haven’t time for such things, even if I did.”

“Well, what do you want from me?” Vaughn asks with a sigh.

“I need your help with Mercy.”

“You have always been afraid of her,” Vaughn says, laughing. 

“Nonsense. But no one deals with Mercy as well as you, Stephen.”

“She has always liked me for some reason,” he says, smiling.

“She has always adored you because you charm and flatter her like you would a woman half her age.”

“You exaggerate,” Vaughn blushes.

“In return for your assistance, I might have something for Margery at court. A silk woman is needed for the Marchioness. They’ve been without since Catherine left.”

“Margery knows the business as well as anyone, I should think.”

“Indeed. And what’s more, my wife likes her and thinks she will suit her sister. It does not pay anything, but there will be commissions and, of course, access to the court. Might be useful I should think.”

“Fair enough. I’m happy to ride my wife’s coattails.”

“You and me both, sir. You and me both.”

+++

He is standing in the gallery looking down at the courtyard. In his mind’s eye he digs a new well in the corner, adds a house for the dogs at the end of the stable. A woman, strikingly beautiful, walks through the gate with two tiny children in tow. It’s the new laundress, Helen Barre. On the day he’d hired her he had capered with her children on his back to the nursery to ask Mary where they might sleep. She had smiled and shaken her head as he tucked one under each arm and spun around while they laughed and shouted for more. Mary had stood near the window, a small box in her hands. (Adelle informs him that Mercy had given Liz’s old sewing box to Mary and that her mistress had been very moved by the gesture, though he suspects Mercy acted to punish her daughter as much as anything.) He had put the children down and little Jane had rushed forth to crush them to her in a rough imitation of his games. “How about it? You and me. Have a little girl?” he’d asked, reaching up, laying his hand on the box, gently, like a man swearing an oath. She’d turned and looked out the window, saying nothing for a moment before turning back. “ We have enough. Too many, really. Stop your games for five minutes and think, man.” He sighs now, looking down from the gallery. It starts to rain. Johanne Williamson walks quickly through the gate, her head covered loosely in a linen wrap. She looks up, spots him, and raises her hand, gives half a wave, before thinking better of it. He goes back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onstraysod has my undying gratitude for her help.


	7. Lord of Misrule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sobriety and hard work are against the rules during Christmas at Austin Friars.

Dawn is just beginning to smudge the sky when he wakes and climbs out of bed, lighting a candle in his dressing room so as to not wake Mary. He throws a cloak over his shirt and pads downstairs to the cupboard where Christmas decorations are stored.

It is his name day, the Feast of St. Thomas, and the first day of Christmas at Austin Friars. He will have to give a speech, reading from a text in Liz’s handwriting, a rule that his dead wife created to prevent him from working and spoiling the holiday. If he has to lose control, let it be here and now, and not with the whole house and Mary watching.

He takes Grace’s wings gently from their peg, runs his hand across the downy peacock feathers and lifts them to his nose. All he can detect is some must from the cupboard. Last year there had been some trace of scent, something warm and clean, reminiscent of beeswax. Or maybe that had just been his fancy.

A Bohemian lutenist once told him that the spirit of St. Thomas would ride about in a chariot of fire on his feast day and all the dead named Thomas would rise to be blessed by their saint. He turns and looks down the dark passage: empty, silent. The dead, if they walk, don’t do so today at Austin Friars. 

Beneath a bundle of shepherd’s crooks, he spots the head of Walter the Sea Monster. He lifts the green-felted monster up and gazes into its bulging eyes. He remembers how Gregory had laughed when he’d worn it years ago. He tucks the mask under his arm and shuts the cupboard, locking his ghosts away for another year. 

He creeps back into the room, lies back on the bed, and rests Walter’s head on his stomach. After a moment of deliberation, he puts it on, struggling to see through the tiny eye holes. The mask is itchy and close, reeking of glue. His own breath echoes around inside and comes to him as if from another person. He is contemplating crawling around on all fours to her side of the bed when the mattress moves under him slightly. Her scream reaches him muffled, as if he were underwater. He sits up, puts his hands out, tries to say “It’s just me,” but is stopped by a blow: her foot to his forehead, judging by the force of it, which propels him backward off the bed. He lands on his shoulder and the mask rolls free. His feet are up in the air and his shirt rolls back to his armpits, leaving his lower body exposed to the chill morning air. Outside the door, the sound of hurrying feet and Adelle’s “Are you all right mistress? Shall I open the door?” 

He sits up, shaking his head wildly, beseechingly, at Mary. “No,” he mouths, and then she starts laughing, a muffled explosion at first since her face is half under the quilt. The instinct to cover oneself, he supposes, in the presence of a monster. 

“It’s all right, Adelle,” she calls. “You needn’t come in,” and then adds under her breath, “My idiot husband frightened me half to death.”

“I’m sorry, my love,” he whispers. “It was just a joke”

“What in God’s name is that, anyway?” she asks, pointing to the mask.

“It’s Walter the Sea Monster. Or his head anyway. My greatest role, from the Christmas pageant some years back. Gregory was still tiny. Even he was not so frightened.”

“I imagine he did not wake to find himself in bed with Walter.”

He laughs, “No. True. I wish I could have seen the look on your face. I’m sure it was comical.”

“You didn’t plan this out very well, did you?”

“It was a whim,” he says, rubbing his shoulder. “A whim that’s going to hurt tomorrow.”

“Serves you right,” she says, fluffing the bolster, preparing to lie down again. “Thank God Adelle didn’t come in. What a fright you would have given her. Naked as the day you were born, and upside down as well.”

“Well, she could say she’d seen a leviathan.”

She hits him over the head with the bolster. “You’d like to think so!”

“Enough, please. My head is ringing as it is.”

“All right. Not that you don’t deserve it. Foolish man,” she says, leaning over to take back her pillow. 

He reaches up and touches her shoulder, first with a finger, then with his lips. “Thing about seamonsters is...”

“Yes?”

“They generally stay in the sea,” he says, nibbling her shoulder, moving toward her neck. “But on occasion they come out and have a look ‘round. Grab a snack.”

“And what do sea monsters eat?”

“Children mainly. Every once in awhile, a maiden.”

“I’m safe then.”

“You’d think so, but the other thing about sea monsters, not very generally known, Is that they have poor eyesight,” he says, starting in on an earlobe.

“Do they?”

“Yes, generally quite blind are seamonsters.”

“I just want to know how they fit into a Christmas pageant.”

“The villain, of course.”

“Makes sense. Eating children is usually frowned upon.”

“Yeah. Terrible habit. Giants and sea monsters.”

“Why Walter?”

“Huh?”

“Why Walter the Seamonster? Why not George, or Thomas for that matter?”

“That was my father’s name. Thought it was appropriate.”

She picks up his hand, brings his monstrous knuckle to her lips with a wan smile. “So does Walter die at the end or does he get redeemed?”

“This being Christmas, he gets redeemed.” He pulls her closer, touching her face, kissing her. He spots Walter’s head out of the corner of his eye as she rolls over. She clambers on top of him, a determined look on her face, her hair cascading down around him, creating a blind from the world, a shield from the past. 

 

+++

The servants are gathered in the main hall as he stands at the head of the stairs. A giggle moves through the crowd like a wave. “To begin the festivities we must proclaim the Lord of Misrule.” A cheer goes up. “For the Twelve Days of Christmas, 1532, I declare Christophe--” He panics suddenly, realizing he doesn’t know the boy’s family name. “Christophe!” He says again louder. There is general grumbling, though Christophe whoops with joy and does a little dance. The boy is grudgingly brought forth for the swearing of the oath. 

“Raise your right hand, sir.” The boy raises his right hand. “Repetez, I swear to uphold the duties of my office,” he reads from the page. Liz’s regular, bold hand does not fail him. “To defend the household against dullness and sobriety, to judge fairly all that are brought before me, and to keep idle those who would work despite the holiday.” Christophe begins, gets lost, and starts again with “I swear,” ending at last with a decisive, “ze holiday.” A smattering of applause and even a few whistles accompany the boy as he swaggers down the stairs. 

Rafe and Richard stand ready with baskets of coins. His paupers will soon arrive by the dozens for their Christmas alms. He and Mary watch from the window, waving as the money is distributed. Sometimes a carol is sung in return. A little boy dances with holly in his cap. Christophe presides over all, flinging coins in the air with abandon. The young Frenchman has gotten someone, probably Adelle, to hastily write, “prince des sots” on a sash which he wears over his tunic. 

+++

Christmas Eve day it rains and the courtyard turns muddy and when Gregory comes home, Clarence spends the better part of an hour bathing the greyhounds’ feet before they can come in the house. He and Mary stand together in the hall, her palm uncharacteristically clammy in his. He lifts her hand to his lips. “He will find you charming. Who would not?” She sighs.

They are flanked by Catherine and Henry. When Gregory enters he looks taken aback, but recovers quickly. 

“You must be Mary,” he says, stepping forward. She curtsies, blushing. He, Cromwell, steps forward and embraces his son. 

“Trip all right?” 

“A bit damp, but yes.”

Henry steps forward, unbidden, and puts his hand out. In a loud, clear voice he says, “I’m Henry.”

Gregory laughs and takes his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Gregory.”

“My daughter, Catherine,” Mary says, and the girl puts a hesitant foot forward. It suddenly strikes him that she and Gregory are the same height, nearly the same age. Perhaps this will be a good thing. Meanwhile, Jane has been standing impatiently, shifting her weight from foot to foot until Gregory notices her. She charges forward and he lifts her up and places her on his hip, easily.

“You weigh a ton, Jane.”

“And you look handsome. Did you catch me a rabbit like you said you would?”

“I did.”

“Can Henry have one of the feet too? For luck?” 

“Of course. There are four, if I remember rightly.”

“Gregory,” he says, “why don’t you take Jane and the others down to see your dogs. They would like that, I think.” Judging from the smiles and the excited steps down the hall, he is right.

“I think that went rather well,” he says, squeezing Mary’s hand.

“It hadn’t occurred to me before but my Catherine…”

“Is the same age as Gregory. Yes, I just realized as well.”

“I hope that’s not trouble.”

“Why should it be trouble? They will have something in common.”

“I suppose. Do you have any match in mind for him yet?”

“Match? Good lord, no. He’s still a boy. Besides, there’s Richard and Rafe to marry off first.”

“I think Rafe has his eye on that new woman, Helen.”

“Helen Barre? You’re mad.”

“Mark him next time they are together and then tell me I’m mad.”

Despite the oath, they are sober and quiet on Christmas Eve. Christophe puts away his sash and they all march across the friary grounds to church, each in the procession carrying a candle. Though Helen Barre’s children are too little to have theirs lit, they still hold them up and away from their face as Jane instructed them to do. While they are in church, the rain turns to snow and the mud freezes and is glazed white. The world is cold and clean as a new coat of paint when his little army of people, his household, shivering and divided into small factions, picks their way back across the difficult ground. 

+++

If he is truthful with himself, he must admit that he does not entirely enjoy the Loveliest Chicken Contest. His head aches with the reek and the racket of the poultry house: the roosters throwing up dust and crowing in their cages, while the hens claw fruitlessly at the floor. Despite the rumor that Mary gave Alice a silver bracelet (it was abalone shell) in exchange for the secret of chicken enchantment, the smart money is still on his niece to win the contest. The odds favor experience, as she has won two years in a row and intends to wear the crown of chicken feathers a third Christmas. 

The children go in first, stirring up the birds, chasing them about. By the time he enters, a hand over his nose, the birds are careening in panicked arcs overhead. He has to duck to avoid daggered feet as one skids to a landing on a perch nearby. He reaches for it half-heartedly, but it flaps away again, screaming in his ear. Alice is first to leave, triumphantly, with two hens, one under each arm. She is followed by Clarence with a shivering, timid bird. Henry wrestles with a mean-looking hen, holding it out from his chest as it squawks and fights. He spots Catherine standing still, looking pale and afraid. He takes her by the arm and leads her out into the fresh air. Gregory comes out after, carrying a bird calmly while Jane tags behind.

“Can you keep a secret?” he whispers to Catherine. She nods. “I hate this contest.” She laughs.

“Why do you go through with it?”

“The children love it.”

“Yes, the children.”She points to her mother through the filthy window. Mary is tracking a bird across the floor like a cat about to pounce. It flies up and lands on a high perch near the ceiling. She slowly approaches it and then gently lifts it down, tucking it under her arm. 

“Ladies and gentleman,” he says, “I think height might triumph over experience.” Mary steps out with a beautiful red, fat hen dozing in her arms. She coos to it, humming a nursery rhyme.

Christophe comes forward, sash restored, parting the crowd importantly, to judge the fowls. He shakes his head at Jane’s and Clarence’s bedraggled birds. Henry has already lost his: it fled across the yard and is now cornered under a wagon by the dogs. He lifts Alice’s birds gently, weighing them, checking their feathers, even giving them a sniff. He nods, pleased. But despite their stout health and calm demeanor they are nothing compared to the loveliness of Mary’s sleek, red bird. She is the clear winner. Christophe takes the crown of chicken feathers from its box and places it on her head. She turns and gives a queenly wave to her adoring public. 

He walks back to the fire pit where Rafe and Richard are running their book. 

“It hardly seems fair, master,” Rafe complains. 

He holds out his hand and Richard fills it with coins. “I’d be a fool to bet against my wife, now wouldn’t I?”

+++

On Christmas Day he is heading to his study to get in some work after dinner, when he is intercepted by Adelle. She escorts him into the hall and departs with the first curtsey he’s seen from her in weeks. He wonders if her return to protocol has anything to do with her Christmas pay packet. 

The rugs in the hall have been rolled up and carried off to the side. There are no lamps lit but masses of candles stand in the corners, and a group of musicians is warming up at the far end of the room. Mary arrives through the opposite door, weaving between the players, wearing the golden gown from Calais. She is radiant, her dress reflecting the candlelight up toward her face and hair. As she steps to the middle of the floor, the musicians end their warm up and begin their tune proper. She moves toward him in time to the music. His mind flits back to Calais, when he saw her move across the dance floor in a train with her sister, a well-rehearsed performance meant to signal Anne’s arrival as queen in all but name. The musicians play the same tune, jaunty and sad, and it brings back that evening, when she first promised to teach him to dance. When he promised… What had he promised? Oh yes, the chess. He had not failed her there. The tune brings back the cold garden and the sound of the sea, the tears she shed on his shoulder, their first kiss. The music swells and he can not believe this moment is real. He is with her alone in his own house. She is his wife, walking towards him in a golden dress. 

“What’s all this?”

“Your Christmas present. Dancing lessons.”

“It’s lovely, really. But maybe later. I’ve work to do.” He turns to go.

She catches him by the hand, stopping him. “Did you forget the oath? I have Christophe waiting outside, ready to enforce it if necessary.” He has no doubt that the lad would be all too happy to oblige.

He sighs. “I warn you, it won’t be pretty.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Not at first anyway. You will be fine. I will show you.” She stands next to him, shoulder to shoulder.

“This is the first dance I learned as a child when I was no bigger than Jane. We will start here and move on to more complicated things.” She holds her hands up and the musicians cease.

“I like that song.”

“It’s not right for this dance.” A simple carole begins.

“Follow me,” she says, taking two steps forward and dipping down on one leg on the third step. He copies her as best he can, noting the twinge in his knee when he dips. 

“That was good. But do right-left-right, not left-right-left.”

“I thought I did.”

“You did not. Right, left, right. Go.”

He manages to obey. They do it together a few more times. “Good. Now exchange places with me, like this.” She steps in front of him and to his side. He steps behind in the opposite way so that they are in a different starting position. “Yes. And again for good measure.” They switch places again.

She stands opposite him and holds one hand up in the air over her head. “Meet your palm on mine, here.” He lifts his hand tentatively to hers. “Now we simply walk in a circle in time to the music, hands pressed together, eight steps. Count them with me.” He feels the warmth of her hand pressed against his palm. This is not so bad. 

“There is one more piece to learn. We hook elbows,” she says, and they link arms. She begins to skip in a circle. He tries to follow but he does not attempt the skipping.

“Thomas, you have to skip.”

“I can’t skip. I won’t. I’m a member of the privy council. Master of the Jewel House. You can’t make me skip.”

“The king skips when it is called for in the dance. You are not above skipping, sir.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Nonsense. Everyone can skip.”

“Not me.”

“At some point in your life, Thomas, I know you have skipped.”

“I deny ever having skipped. You can’t prove it. I was ever a non-skipper.”

“All right then, I will teach you. Be grateful you are learning this here with me now, with no witnesses.”

“The musicians are here.”

“They’ve been sworn to secrecy. Torture will not make them talk.”

He looks over at them: they appear engrossed in their sheet music.

He takes a step and skips with his good leg. He stops and looks back for her approval, which she gives with a nod. He takes another step, skipping with the same leg. It requires him to take a quick little in-between step.

“Try to alternate which leg you skip. It will be easier.”

“I don’t think I can. Can I not just use my method If I keep in time to the music?”

“It will be more work but if you can manage to keep in time, I don’t see why not…”

He gives it several more attempts in a row, skipping quickly the length of the floor. He arrives back where she is standing, smiling. He mops his brow, breathing heavily.

“Very good sir. We are ready to bring in the other couple.”

“Other couple?” he asks, panic edging into his voice.

“Yes, you need four for this dance. Gregory and Catherine have agreed to help us out.”

“My own son turned traitor. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“He was eager to help.”

“I’ll bet he was.”

“Thomas, if you would let yourself be ridiculous more, you might…”

“Might what?”

“Might have an easier time of things with Gregory.

“I wasn’t aware I had difficulty with my son.”

She gives him a look of disbelief. 

“You don’t sometimes wonder if you frighten away his affection?”

He remembers once asking Johanne if she thought Gregory was frightened of him and she had said no. 

“You have seen me in the presence of my son on five whole occasions and now you’re an expert,” he says, as calmly as he can manage.

“I have noticed that you stiffen your back when he comes into the room. You don’t do that with Richard and Rafe. And that you sometimes say things that sound critical that perhaps weren’t meant to be.”

“Such as?”

“Well, at dinner this evening when we were eating the stewed rabbits that Gregory had brought, you said that he should have been minding his studies, not out hunting.”

“I complimented him on the game,” he says.

“Not really. If I recall you complimented Thurston’s recipe.”

The music comes to a stop. They stand opposite one another. He stares at her. There is no argument he can make. She is right. She is dazzling. He bows. 

“I’m at your command, madam.” 

She gestures and one of the lute players lays down his instrument, opens the door for the children to come in.

+++

As promised, they must attend court on New Year’s Day. They set off for Greenwich, the sun rising before them as they float down the river. It will be said that they should have stayed over, that they waste their time with so much travel, first by wagon, then by barge, but the less time in the glare of Anne’s triumph the better, he thinks. He sits with Mary leaning against him on the boat, wrapped in a heavy robe, their breath hanging in the air. He kisses her neck, feels her pulse under his fingers, traces the outline of her spine under warm skin and golden hair at the nape of her neck. He wants nothing more than for this day to be over, to be back at home in his own bed with his wife.

Eltham is heaving, and temporary kitchens have been set up to feed all the nobles who have come in from every part of the kingdom to eat at the royal trough. The hall is crowded and the noise can be heard halfway down to the bankside. They arrive just minutes before the king who enters in red, trimmed with ermine. Anne is in white, trimmed with red, no ermine yet. She may be queen in name only but she is scrupulous of protocol. The crowd cheers Anne and Henry as they are seated at the head of the banquet.

Mary is whisked away by Lady Shelton who is having her fitted for a costume. She is to appear as a dancer before the main entertainment. This will be no Austin Friar’s pageant. There will be no children in angel’s wings, no Virgin Mary on a pantomime donkey, no adolescent Joseph with tied-on beard, no Walter the Sea Monster or Marlinspike the Giant. Instead they will see The Play of the Weather which compares the king to Jupiter and Anne to a saint. He can hardly wait.

He leaves the noise of the hall and enters a quiet sitting room that has been temporarily converted to serve as storage for the king’s gifts. He must eventually catalog all of them and he might as well start now. He looks around as if Christophe might be there waiting to scold him for working on a feast day. He begins with Anne’s gifts to Henry, a set of darts for hunting boar, handsomely wrought with leather handles. Midway down the table, among the plate, is a magnificent golden cup, covered top to bottom in colored gems. There is a letter attached, the seal of which makes his heart stop. It is from the queen. He breaks the seal. “My beloved husband…” it begins. He wonders if perhaps it has somehow gone unnoticed. He has half a mind to carry it out under his cloak and throw it in the river. Good God, why hadn’t he gone to Kimbolten when he had the chance? The Boleyns will seize on this failure, his inability to reign in the Queen, to break her will. Henry had expressly asked him to prevent exactly this sort of thing. 

He moves the cup to the far side of the room, placing it behind a very large silver platter, set upright on a stand. He enters it in the book as “goblet to Henry R from K of A,” burying it among the entries for gifts of fish and game. Thirty pikes from the mayor of Cambridge, a brace of pigeons from the Scottish borders. 

Back in the hall, the music begins. He manages to find a seat where he can see his wife as she enters in a swirl of white organdy silk. Dancing like clouds they float past, the prelude to the weather he supposes. The king applauds and they all follow suit. He turns to Henry who is intently watching the dance, a look of delight and perhaps hunger on his face. He could swear that the king’s eyes follow Mary as she moves across the stage, bowing low as she did before the King of France in a play of his own devising in Calais. Perhaps it is Mistress Shelton instead, he hopes. But no: his heart sinks. Mary has moved alone to the side of the stage now and His Majesty is clearly watching only her. He glances at Anne who looks at the king as well. He remembers Mary’s words in the garden, that even a king would respect another man’s prior claim. At least for a time. 

Before the play begins, the king calls him forth and he pushes past the Boleyns and Suffolk to kneel at the king’s foot. Henry reaches down and he kisses the royal ring. He is about to stand when the king takes his hand in his and something drops into his palm. It is the ring he had made for Henry from Francis’s jewel in Calais. He slips it on. Henry has had it resized. It fits perfectly. Mendes probably, he thinks, remembering how he, Cromwell, had handed over his turquoise to be examined by the clever goldsmith. He wears Henry’s ring on his right hand, the Cardinal’s on his left. 

“Thank you for your service, sir,” Henry says in a gentle voice that makes him forget his jealous thoughts of a few moments earlier.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” He bows and notices as does so that the king’s eye is drawn over his shoulder. He turns and looks back to see Mary standing behind him, her bosom glowing damp with perspiration beneath the cumulous silk. He shows the ring to her and she smiles as he leads her away from the king as fast as he dares.

On the boat home, they sit wrapped up together again. He holds her as tight as she will stand, his arm cutting into the pressboard of her kirtle. The torches create flickering orange and yellow reflections on the river. He follows them, mesmerized like a king watching clouds. He whispers her name but she has drifted asleep. She will wake soon enough in the jostling of the wagon. Back home the bonfires of his own courtyard are presided over by a French ruffian for only a few more days; a fragile peace hangs over the new year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Holds up heart fingers for Onstraysod* THANK YOU!


	8. Twelfth Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the mask comes off, the truth comes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: rape and incest are discussed, though not graphically.

What creatures come forth in the dark, dancing in the halflight? Two by two they enter the circle: A camel and a sea monster. A giant and a small black cat. A ruffian in a sash and a lady’s maid in her mistress’s old dress. The latter argue and then make peace in a vapour of drunken kisses. They force the bowl to one another's lips and then pass it around the circle, and the whole company drinks from it, be they servant or the master of the house. 

Around the fire, behind your wall, are you safe? Are you incognito? Like the new fashion for slashed doublets, you hide your shining silk beneath some foggy hue. A finger reaches over and touches your quality in the dark. Whose finger? Is it that of your lady, or her maid? A mother Mercy, or a witch? Faces shift and slide like wax dripping from a candle, distorted in the light. Your body first, then your mind, moving in an unsteady orbit round the fire. There is music and gambling and laughter and singing; vulgar jokes and old, old stories. Half a dozen pantomime creatures wander to and fro while you dance on the gravel of your courtyard, your own patch, your own ground, safe behind your wall. Is it for your entertainment, this yearly letting off of steam? If so, you are surely aware that entertainment always comes with a price. 

So pay the man, for tonight he is both actor and audience with his palm held out in the dark, a scarred and imperfect hand, usually hidden under fine black leather gloves but tonight outstretched bare in the firelight, asking for alms. His beggar’s rags, were they to be examined by day, would reveal old bed linen dyed by the new lady of the house aided in her labors by his lover and the ghost of his dead wife. 

Alms received, he disappears from the dance only to reappear on a bench near the fire, his arms around a lady’s maid. They are gay at first, this counterfeit beggar and servant, laughing and singing and joining in songs, but as the night deepens and the chill air closes in, their limbs tremble and their masks drop away. Now is the hour of truth, though by the Friary bells it’s not much past midnight.

+++

He opens his eyes, his skull ringing with a dull pain which intensifies when he lifts his head even slightly. He reaches out for her, but she’s not there. The bells ring five. He staggers to his feet needing the jakes. He is someplace strange, the kitchen he supposes. Steadying himself on the work table, he manages to arrange himself well enough to make the trip to the courtyard. 

On his way back he shuffles past the embers of the bonfire. Rafe is asleep nearby, in a heap of greyhounds. Richard and Gregory are playing dice with Diego, who is wearing the rear half of Gregory’s old pantomime camel costume. The front end of the camel is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Christophe, his Lord of Misrule. 

“Where is his Lordship? His Lady fair?” he asks, referring to Adelle, last seen looking well - if a bit squeezed - in one of Mary’s old gowns. They look up and shrug. That’s it, lads, keep it up until the cock crows. That’s the only way. He thinks back to a Twelfth Night in his youth with Walter passed out in the courtyard while he danced a jig as the sun came up. He had forgotten the moment until now. Unimportant he supposes, but on Christmas he’d told Mary that he’d never danced, never skipped. He must have danced and forgotten. 

At the base of the kitchen stairs he meets Thurston, who wordlessly takes him by the elbow and guides him to a stool by the hearth.

“You look in need of one of my eye openers, Master. Never fails,” the cook says gently. 

“Not so loud,” he says. “But yes, thank you.”

He warms his cold feet, still wrapped in the beggar’s rags of his costume, as Thurston busies himself with the concoction. In the back of his mind he wonders where Mary has gotten to. The thought of her fills him with a vague dread. They had not quarreled, exactly, but something else had happened that he can’t quite put his finger on: a conversation outside by the fire, before they fell asleep on the pallet bed in the kitchen. 

Thurston presses the mug into his hand.

“Knock it back. All in one,” he orders and then, after a beat, adds, “If you please, master.” Thurston was never one to buy in to the customs of Twelfth Night. He had kept his usual mix of over-familiarity and deference all through the evening, bringing them toasted cheese as they sat on their bench playing at beggar and lady’s maid. 

He downs the drink: both nourishing and repulsive. Is that a raw egg? His head clears slightly and he looks up gratefully at his preserver.

“Another for Mistress Cromwell,” he says, and then realizes he has no idea where to direct Thurston to send the tray. “I’ll take it to her myself.” Rising slow and determined from his chair by the fire, a few hazy images come back. It had started at the bonfire, as they had danced unsteadily, arms around one another’s waists. He had relished the soft feel of her servant’s gown beneath his forearm rather than the pressboard armour of the court dresses she usually wore.  
_  
“Sit with me, sir, here on this bench,” she says, pointing to a log near the fire. He smiles. Another damn bench._

_“You must be a gambling woman.”_

_“How so?”_

_“Well, every tenth beggar is master of the house this evening. What do you think of your odds?”_

_“I don’t know about the odds. But I think you are drunk.”_

_“As are you,” he says, sliding nearer to her on their log. “So what does it matter?”_

_“I’m not drunk. I learned to drink in the French Court.” He laughs at her joke, a reference to his cryptic ‘I learned to drink with Germans.’_

_“Your Lord of Misrule is distracted from his duties,” she says, pointing to Christophe who is leading the dance now in his absence. “ Are you sure you won’t nip inside and finish up some work?”_

_“Work?” he says, as if he’d never heard the word before._

_“You truly must be a beggar. The master of this house wouldn’t miss an opportunity to compound some interest or redraft a bill.”_

_“Tell me more about this ogre. He sounds dreadful.”_

_“Oh he is!” she laughs, putting her hand on his arm. “And what’s more he has ruined the best servant in England.”_

_“How? Lechery? Cruelty?”_

_“He has offered her money to spy on her mistress.”_

_“Pray point out this poor ruined wretch.” She points to Adelle, dancing in her borrowed dress._

_“She is beyond hope then?”_

_“Look at her haughty manner and decide for yourself.”_

_“I see what you mean. Do you think he got his money’s worth from her?_

_“Not unless she invents things. From what I hear, there is nothing to tell. He wastes his money and breaks his lady’s heart.” He studies her face. She is still smiling: a bit wickedly, it seems to him, in the firelight._

_“Perhaps he is used to dealing with informants. As a matter of habit.”_

_She snorts derisively and pulls at the rags on his neck. “Are you sure you are not this master of the house, after all?”_

_He takes her hand and kisses her warm fingers, pressing them into his neck. She leans in and kisses him. They go on like this until he imagines it has blown over, this drunken inquiry, imagines there is nothing but her mouth, always eager and surprising. Though the wassail weighs on his limbs, makes him dozy, it fires him too and he plots to carry her off to some dark corner. Then she pulls back, panting, and says, “She is the one who should employ spies, from what I hear.”_

_The bowl comes around to them and he raises it up. “Oh?”_

_“They say he killed a man.”_

_“Just the one? Is there another man of property who can boast of so little mayhem? Even I have made short work with a knife when necessary.”_

_“I’ve no doubt you have, sir. But this was no waterfront stabbing, no brawl gone awry, but a murder planned and carried out just as cool as you please.”_

_He hides his face in the bowl, drinking deeply to avoid looking her in the eye as she carries on._  
  
_“What’s more, the victim was his lady’s kin, her family’s protector and a noble lord of this realm.”_

_He can’t help but smile at her description of her Uncle Norfolk, so much like the one he gave in eulogy._

_“It was a riding accident, or so I heard,” he says, lowering the bowl. He’d best be careful. Perhaps she is trying to loosen his tongue with drink._

_“So said the official reports which he himself wrote.”_

_“I am half in admiration of this villain.”_

_“He does have a certain style. But that does not excuse murder, surely?”_

_“Hush, woman. Be careful what you say. That sounds like an accusation. If he is as desperate a fiend as you say, you never know what he might do.”_

_“Do you think we are in danger?” She clings to his arm._

_“May be. Perhaps we should seek asylum somewhere quiet and dark. Have you a bolt hole perhaps?” He puts both arms around her and pulls her in close._

_“If I did, I’d be a fool to go there with a man who moments ago bragged of his handiwork with knives!” She is joking, smiling, but her body is like a coiled spring in his arms._

_“Oh that. I was only trying to impress you. I exaggerate, I assure you.” She relaxes a bit. “Why do you think he spies on his lady?”_

_“I don’t know. Perhaps he worries about her lovers.”_

_“Has she many?” he asks, trying to sound casual._

_“Had. In the past. Yes.”_

_“Oh? I suppose now you will tell me of them,” he says, feigning a yawn._

_“Only one. The first one.”_

_“I heard it was the gamekeeper’s son.”_

_“No, she never had time for him.”_

_“The gamekeeper then?”_

_“Don’t be grotesque. You will never guess.”_

_“I don’t really care,” he lies._

_“You should.”_

_“Very well. Tell me.”_

_“It was her brother.”_

_“What!?”_  
  
He had said it as himself and had let go of her suddenly, practically dropping her from the log. She had looked back at him, still smiling in the firelight. Her eyes, though, were no longer laughing, but empty. He feels sick recalling it now, standing outside their bedroom, about to open the door. He holds the tray with the eye opener in one hand, the doorknob in the other. He pushes it slightly open, peering inside. In the dim light he sees Mary’s old dress, still rumpled on the floor. He pokes his head into the room, just far enough to listen, and hears a pair of snores, coming from their bed. He shuts the door and turns away, uncertain what to do. Surely it’s his duty to break this up. Part of him feels giddy, and in the spirit of the evening he wants to run to Mary, tell her of this turn of events. But of course he can’t do that. He doesn’t know where Mary is and, even if he could find her, he can’t help but remember that the same bowl that conjured up this dalliance also brought forth nightmares. Let Christophe and Adelle sleep. Let secrets stay secret.

But it is no use. She had plunged on, unbidden, with the story, taking his hand, touching his monstrous knuckle to her lips, saying that she could not produce scars, only pictures made of words:  
_  
“It was after I’d left the nursery and was first on my own. Anne was in France. She was sent over first, though she was younger. The prodigy," she says in an ironic tone. "At first it was a pleasant enough picture: I had my brother back, in those quiet dark hours when I missed him most. There was warmth and a tingling feeling that made everything exciting.”_

_He shifts uncomfortably on the log, jealousy and revulsion mixed, making him restless. He grits his teeth, thinking of George Boleyn at Hever, sneering about Mary’s faulty memory._

_“How can I describe the pleasure? It was a sweetness. It wasn’t sex. It wasn’t anything at first. We didn’t know anything. How could we?”_

_He says nothing, though his heart is pounding. Perhaps taking his silence for support, she continues. “That was the first picture. The one I keep to remind myself of who I was and who my brother was. It helps to hang onto that picture and not the others.” He braces himself for the others, but he knows now they will come no matter what. Once conjured up, the devil cannot be so easily put to bed._

_“When I was fourteen, I was sitting with my tutor, reading Gower. Do you know Gower?” she asks, turning to him, matter-of-factly. She is so calm, so normal. He nods._

_“Gower, you know, and the wicked king, Antiochus, the incestuous father of Marina.” He has forgotten that part of the tale, but he bids her to continue as though he remembers._

_“And that word, ‘incestuous,’ I did not know it. So naturally I asked my tutor, who turned purple but managed to define it eventually. Imagine, Thomas,” she says, breaking character, making his heart leap in his chest, “I suddenly had a word for this thing that had been happening. And no sooner did it have a name then I learned it was wicked.”_

_“What did you do?” he asks, pulling her closer, as much to warm his own body as to comfort her. He is shaking with cold. In shock, he supposes, as if he’d received a wound that he could not locate._

_“I told George we must stop at once, that we must pray for forgiveness. And for a few nights that was good enough. He stayed away. And I went about my life as if it had never happened. And Thomas, if that had been all there was to it, I would not be telling this now. It would be too small, too silly a thing to worry about. Children playing a game in error, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. Children being corrected, saying their prayers, earning forgiveness.”_

_“But that was not the end,” he says, hearing his own voice in the dark as if spoken by an actor on a stage. He looks over his wall, up at the sky, lit by a thousand bonfires. Around them a thousand beggars sing and dance and are oblivious. He would gladly switch places with any of them, real or imposters, if it meant not hearing the rest of the story._

_“No. It was not. A few nights, maybe a week, later I heard footsteps outside my chamber door. Thinking it was my father sleepwalking, I rolled over and started to go back to sleep. Then my door opened. I sat up, straining to see in the blackness. There was a moment, when he stood in the doorway, a lantern lighting his face. Then the light went out. There was a shuffling in the dark and he was on top of me somehow, pushing me back onto the bed. I did not scream. I did not cry. I did not even move. I-- Have you ever been so frightened you couldn’t move?” she asks._

_“Sometimes, with Walter, I could see it coming and do nothing,” he says quietly._

_“Yes, you understand. I could see it coming and do nothing. And the weight on top of me in the darkness. His weight pressing down on me so that I couldn’t breathe. That is the one thing I remember above all else.”_  
  
Suddenly aware that he has stopped breathing himself, he finds that he has wandered down the hall and is standing outside the nursery with the blasted tray still in his hand. He exhales, pushes open the door. It is dim, the children are still asleep. He looks around for Mary, sees her curled in half on a small bed next to Catherine, a child’s blanket partially covering her. There is no room for him to sit next to her without waking her. He stands for a moment, watching her sleep.

He runs through the facts in his mind. She was young, but not so young. People marry at that age. She was innocent, but not so innocent. She had said herself that she enjoyed her brother’s visits. Was she to blame, somehow? He imagines a court. She is on trial for incest. The jury’s faces are lit by torches, twisted, angry. She is to blame, they cry out. She has brought it on herself. She was born wicked. He watches her sleep. She is placid, deep asleep. His sense of justice, so long bitten back in jealousy, rises with his gorge. He sets the tray down quickly, makes his way to the stool outside in the hall where he vomits. He tries to be as quiet as he can, he doesn’t want to wake or frighten the children. He leans shakily on the bench, dabbing his mouth with his beggar’s rags. She was not to blame. His Venus is blameless. And once again he is caught in his own mesh:  
_  
She does not cry but he gives her a handkerchief, just in case. She sits twisting it in her hands as she speaks. He keeps offering her the bowl, thinking if ever she needed a drink it was now, but she waves it away. He drains it himself instead, feeling light-headed and ill._

_“Who was it?”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“The man with the lantern.”_

_“Who do you think it was?”_

_“Your father?”_

_“No, even now he only walks in his sleep. He is blind to what goes on in his house. If I tell you, you will be triumphant, vindicated, that you sent to him to hell already.”_

_He shakes his head, weakly. “Surely not your uncle!”_

_“The very same. Ah, you see, you are pleased. I knew it.”_

_“Not pleased, no. Confused. You lit candles for him. Seemed genuinely sad at his funeral.”_

_“Guilt. So long had I wished and prayed for his death that, when it came, I felt I was somehow to blame. In a way I was, I suppose, since you would not have killed him if you hadn’t wanted to marry me.”_

_“True,” he says, reminded of Stephen Vaughn’s compliment: he never did anything without half a dozen reasons. She might as well credit his wish to put a bill for improvement of the roads through Parliament._

_“Your uncle,” he says, shuddering at the thought of Norfolk: his great greasy head. Pieces of saints rattling in a pouch at his neck. “God’s blood.”_

_“After that, George came back. He was different then, more to the point, knew his way around. Or perhaps it was me. Either way, it was better than the alternative. I understood that much. It had been a punishment, you see, for disobeying. Even though I didn’t realize I was disobeying. Didn’t see the end goal: that I was to be delivered, with a certain kind of education, to the King of France.”_

_He takes all this in, dazed, shaking, fiddling with Francis’s ring guiltily in the firelight, remembering the occasion upon which the stone had been offered to him. Francis had been in the midst of describing Mary’s body in some detail. He, Cromwell, had thought only that he must not blush in front of Francis, must not reveal his own desire for her._

_“The next year I went to France. George stayed behind in England. That was an end to it.”_

_“Do you think that Anne and George--”_

_“Yes, but not in the same way. My sister never required the...the reinforcement that I did. She was younger, never saw anything wrong in it. She would never have turned George away. And as far as I know-- Well, let’s just say that she and George remain close.” He hears, to his pain, a trace of bitterness, even jealousy in her voice._  
  
He sees the trial again in his mind. Sees Anne on the dock with her sister, looking back, pleading with her eyes for him to remain silent. It is another secret between them now. He seems destined to be webbed to her with secrets. He paces the nursery, stepping carefully between the tiny beds. Whatever duty he has to the king, surely his duty to his wife comes first. This is not his secret to tell. 

Mary stirs, breaks his reverie. He smiles down at her. “I brought you something, love. From Thurston. He swears it has curative powers.”

“You look like you could use it yourself.”

“I am a bit worse for the wear. How is your head?”

“My head is fine. I’m a bit thirsty, though,” she says, sitting up, reaching for the cup. She takes a sip, makes a face, but carries on drinking the eye opener. 

“Better?”

“Yes, thanks. I’m sorry I left you in the kitchen.”

“Nonsense. I was worried this morning, is all. After last night.”

“I was just so hot and uncomfortable,” she says, handing the cup back, not quite looking him in the eye. ”I needed to be on my own a bit. You clung rather tightly in your sleep.”

“Did I? Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You are sweet. But you can’t make everything better in one night. It doesn’t work like that.”

“How does it work, then?” he asks, sitting on the edge of the bed, forcing a glum smile.

“I don’t know. We have to go slowly. You showed me your hurt. I showed you mine..” Her choice of words! Everything still a game to her. 

“You were trying to tell me at Hever. I’m sorry, I didn’t listen then.”

“You were sick. And anyway, I wasn’t ready at Hever. It was only the first step: remembering, being back in my old room.”

He winces, seeing the demonic image of Norfolk in the lantern light. She puts her hand on his cheek, soothing. Her touch is soft and warm as ever. Beggar or no, he is still a lucky man. He takes her hands in his, kisses them.

“I have interesting news,” he says, brightening.

“Oh?” She wraps an arm around his shoulder. “Do tell.”

“Our Lord and Lady--”

“Found their way into our bed. Yes, I know. I nearly walked in on it. Are you angry?”

“No. I guess I should be, but I feel strangely happy for them.”

“Me too. Though he is all wrong for her. Too young, for one thing. A ruffian for another.”

“I was going to say she is too old for him. And too full of herself for her own good.”

“Yes, and whose fault is that?” she says, raising her brow pointedly at him. 

“Mine, I suppose,” he says, hanging his head. “I have learned my lesson about what money can buy in informants.”

“And what’s that?”

“Well, there has to be something to tell, doesn’t there?” 

“Indeed. Are you satisfied that I can be trusted?” she asks in a hardened tone. Of course there can be no more spying. He knows that. After last night, her secrets are his. 

“Yes,” he whispers, pulling her into an embrace, feeling her warmth spread across his body. Everything awful and different. He’s never felt closer to anyone. He is terrified. He changes the subject. 

“I have to say something to Christophe and Adelle, I know. It’s my duty.”

“Do you? Can’t we just chalk it up to Twelfth Night?”

“I suppose,” he says, nodding, relieved. “Sometimes it’s best to try to move on.”

“Life goes on.”

“Yes. They may have forgotten it themselves, already,” he says. He hopes for their sake he is right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Onstraysod for her continued help and patience with this project.


	9. Round Robin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An archery tournament is a backdrop to conflict _or_ Cromwell picks an unfortunate time to get his groove back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Archery Terms**  
>  butt: a target made of earth  
> clout: a target lying flat on the ground  
> roving: a style of archery using a course where the targets can be moved to resemble game, etc.
> 
>  **A note about crossbows**  
>  I believe that as a short-range archer, Cromwell would have likely used a crossbow. In his conversation with Norfolk in the novel, he doesn't reveal this fact. This could be because Norfolk might have disapproved of him further, since crossbows were looked down upon because they required less skill, or it could be Hilary Mantel just didn't want to get into the whole crossbow thing right then. At any rate, they were illegal in England, except in the hands of nobility and there were numerous laws enforcing the ban on crossbows passed during Cromwell's years with Henry.
> 
>  **Content warning**  
>  Rape and incest are discussed by characters in the story, though not graphically.

It is the day after Epiphany when the invitation arrives via a King’s messenger. He finds Gregory in his room, packing to return to Cambridge. The space is close and humid: the chimney thrusts itself unwelcome into the room. It was never a place for a grown person, he thinks. They had always planned to find something larger for him, something further away from their own to give him privacy. Gregory keeps the window open year round, in a useless effort against the heat. Liz always used to scold him about it. 

“Sir, what is it?”

“We have received an invitation. It includes everyone, and the king mentions you by name.” 

The boy looks pleased but carries on packing.

“A few weeks from now, the king will wed and he wants his whole family around him.” He stops himself from adding ‘this time.’

“Why does he need to get married again?” Gregory asks, lifting a stack of shirts out of the wardrobe.

“He’s marrying Anne Boleyn, lately your aunt. You should be pleased.”

“Yes, I know,” Gregory says, sounding exasperated, “but did he not just marry my aunt in Dover?”

“You’re not supposed to know about that.”

“Rafe and Richard were talking the other day--”

“I’ve no doubt. It’s all right. Look: just don’t let on that you know. Can you do that as a favor to your father?”

“Of course. I still don’t understand why she needs marrying a second time.”

He bites his lip, thinking. It is not an easy question. “We are creating a new church to replace Rome. A church loyal to England. To the crown. The priest who married them before was a good sort, and a very loyal subject. But he also took a vow to be loyal to Rome. So it was thought best if the union were blessed by someone who is amenable to the idea of a new church...” Gregory looks bored, or perhaps confused. “Cranmer will perform the ceremony.”

“Rafe said that Cranmer was very low when he came home and found he’d been left out of the wedding. Perhaps they are trying to cheer him up, “ Gregory says in a playful tone.

“You would do well not to repeat everything Rafe says,” he warns sternly. “Though, he is correct in essentials. They need to keep Cranmer happy. He is the only one who can bring the church to heel.” 

“When’s the wedding?” Gregory asks, with little apparent interest in the answer.

“The 25th. Oh, and the good news is there’s to be an archery tournament to celebrate the day. Richard is going to do the clout shooting as he’s best with a long bow. I will take butts as that’s the most I can manage. And I was wondering if you’d help us out with the roving?” 

“I’d love to,” the boy beams. 

“I’ll write Master Chekyng and tell him you’ll be staying in London a few more weeks, shall I?”

Gregory nods enthusiastically. He is about to leave when he thinks perhaps he might take advantage of the boy’s good mood. “How are you getting on with your new siblings?”

“All right. They are nice.”

“And Mary?”

“All right. She is friendly. I like her.” Not exactly praise, but he’ll take it.

“Good, she was nervous about meeting you. Doesn’t want you to think she’s trying to replace--”

“I know that. No one could.”

“Right. Remember, no matter what, you’re the oldest son.”

Gregory looks back at him with a puzzled expression. 

“I mean that your inheritance is safely in trust, not to be disturbed until you reach your majority. Should anything happen to me, Mary will get an allowance for the remainder of her life. Her children will get portions. Similar to Richard and Rafe, but smaller still. The bulk of the estate will --” He stops. The boy looks horrified.

“Not to worry. I’ve no plans to go anywhere any time soon.” 

“I don’t sit around worrying about my inheritance, you know.” He sounds wounded.

“I know. But perhaps you should. You are too--” He starts to say ‘frivolous’ but says “generous” instead.

“I just wanted you to know. Why don’t you unpack that lot and I’ll join you later for some bow practice? I think we have a good chance at taking out the Boleyns this year. The king must win, of course,” he says, aware that he is rambling, “but we must make him feel that we’ve done our best. And we will, lad, we will!”

He pats the boy on the arm and is pleasantly surprised when his son embraces him, in the old way he used to as a child: his head thrust against his belly, arms wrapped tight around him. 

+++

The next day’s black pouch from Eltham carries word that a papal nuncio is due at the end of the month to discuss the Great Matter. Young Henry Howard is not up to filling in for his late father, so he, Cromwell, must meet with the Pope’s emissary. He barricades himself in his office, eating and sleeping there, never leaving until he hears that Mercy is ill with a cold. He goes up to see her, hold her hand, cajole her back into health. On his way back to his study he passes a window and sees his son practising with his bow, alone in the back garden, using a pile of construction dirt as a target. I will join him tomorrow, he promises himself. Tomorrow comes and goes and he does not leave his study once. That evening, very late -- Richard and Rafe have long been in bed -- there is a knock at the door, a familiar little scratch. 

“Come in,” he calls. Nothing. The timid knock again. “Come in!” he says, louder. Again nothing. Again the knock. “Oh for pity’s…” he says, rising with a creaking noise from his desk. He makes his way stiffly to the door and opens it. She is there in her shirt, laces undone, hanging down between her breasts. She holds up the lantern, the light of which easily penetrates the gauzy film of her shirt.

“Did I surprise you?”

“I knew it was you. I would know that little scratching knock anywhere,” he says softly, his annoyance evaporating at the site of her.

“It’s late. Come to bed.”

“I have more yet to do this evening.”

“You can finish it tomorrow.”

“Maybe you don’t completely understand the situation,” he says, growing irritable again. “The wheels of papal bureaucracy grind slowly, love, and if we want to have Henry divorced before your sister’s baby is due, I’m going to have to work some nights.” He adds in a biting tone: “I pray we don’t all work just to put a cuckoo in the nest.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I hope it’s not George Boleyn’s bastard I’m working for here.”

“No. Anne has been scrupulously careful in that regard. Trust me. I have heard the blow-by-blow for years. With George. With Henry.”

“And you trust her?”

“Anne will lie. But not about this. There’s too much opportunity to cause me pain.”

He sighs, turns to go back to his desk. He finds he cannot step away. She holds him fast by the belt. He turns back: she has rooted herself in her stance, feet planted wide upon the floor. She is stronger than she looks and, short of knocking her over, he can’t budge.

“Come to bed, Thomas,” she says, her voice just above a whisper. She begins to pull him out of the room.

“Very well,” he relents. He is exhausted and there is little more he can do this evening without Rafe and Richard anyway. 

She guides him through the house, her hand still firmly tucked under his belt, her knuckles digging into his belly. Any other time, perhaps, and his heart would skip with excitement, his cock respond to the proximity of her hand, but all he can feel is tired and numb as he follows her up the stairs. In their room she lights a candle and extinguishes the lantern. She leans into him, pushing his cloak from his shoulders. She reaches up, puts her hands on his face, kisses him. His mouth feels dry. She pulls back. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m exhausted. I need to sleep. You’re lovely, honestly. I just need to sleep.”

“You’ve been hiding from us. From me.”

“I’ve been working. I have a lot of work to do.”

“You will always have a lot of work to do. That is your lot. But you can’t just leave us, pretend we’re not here. Gregory--”

“Will be all right. I will join him tomorrow. I promise. We’ll have plenty of time to prepare for the tournament.”

“At least you have your priorities straight,” she says with a sarcastic edge in her voice. “And me?”

“Tomorrow night. Perhaps. I just need to rest.”

“Are you sure it’s not...that it’s nothing to do with what we talked about on Twelfth Night?”

“No, not at all. I’m just tired.” He lies. He has fought daily with the image of Mary and her brother, the jealous tone with which she’d said of Anne ‘she and George remain close.’ These thoughts drive him to his work, keep him shut up in his study, away from the world. 

He sits down on the bed stiffly, removes his hose, lies back. She puts out the candle, climbs into bed beside him. He reaches out, pulls her to him so she lies with her head on his chest. She lays her palm on his belly, fingers spread wide against the rise and fall of his breath. Her hand is there as a challenge, he knows, like the proverbial gauntlet. He lies awake for a while listening to her breath till he is certain she’s asleep, then he gently pulls his arm away, rolls over on his side, and curls up into himself.

+++  
The next morning they are in the yard behind the house and he is pointing at things and Gregory is shooting them, to practice his roving. He stands well back but is in no danger from his son, who is skilled and controlled with the bow. 

“My friend Charles says there’s nothing like a crossbow for roving. Says a man can hit a deer from atop a horse.”

“Possibly. I don’t know your friend Charles. Does he have a crossbow?”

“No, but Billy does. His father is a Marquis. You have to be nobility, you know. ”

“I’m aware. I worked on the bill of enforcement myself. Last year. We are revising it now.”

“Richard said you used a crossbow. In the battle.”

“I didn’t get a chance to fire much, but that was what I was trained to do.”

“Seems odd that you can’t own one now.”

“Yes. But the king feels strongly on the topic,” he says and motions to Gregory to follow him around the side of the house to a cellar door. He takes a key from the set he wears on his belt and opens the lock. They follow the steps down into the damp room lit by a grubby little window in the corner. He walks over to an empty wine rack and moves it aside. On the wall behind, he smacks a wooden panel square in the middle with the flat of his palm. The panel pops out and he catches it, handing it to Gregory who stands there with a gaping mouth. Behind the panel are twelve crossbows, mostly Italian make, a few French models. He takes a small one down and hands it to the boy. He holds it up in awe at first, admiring some carving on the stock, then he trains it around the room, citing various objects for imaginary destruction.

“I wish I could practice with it.”

“You can. As long as you keep out of sight. I sometimes use that,” he says, pointing to an empty wine barrel covered in cobwebs and riddled with holes.

The boy holds up the bow, puzzling for a moment before asking, “How do I draw?” 

He demonstrates by placing one foot in a loop at the base of the bow. He takes hold of the lever and pulls upward, listening for the satisfying ratchet and clack as the trigger locks into place. He hands Gregory a bolt from a stack inside the panel and the boy loads it.

“Be careful where you point it. That can pierce armour plate at a couple hundred yards.” 

The boy nods, impressed, and aims at the barrel. He fires and hits the barrel, shattering one of the staves in the side. They laugh and take turns shooting the target to pieces, till a noise outside the cellar -- probably Henry and Jane playing Knight and Damsel among the brick piles -- ends their fun.

+++

He is seated next to Mary’s mother at the wedding banquet. She drinks from the cup that Katherine sent Henry. “You thought you’d hid it, I suppose. No one would ever know of your blunder. But nothing goes unnoticed by my Anne.” He smiles, but stabs his knife into his venison with a vigour meant as a warning.

Anne is resplendent in her gown, let out in the waist but not in the bosom: she is fairly bursting out of the bodice. She wears the jeweled “B” around her neck like a harness, pulling them all toward the crown. 

His sons are sitting at a lower table drinking and laughing, enjoying the jugglers. He catches Gregory’s eye and gives him a sad little wave. The boy laughs and throws a coin to the jugglers.

Mary sits glumly next to her father. He watches Henry for any tell-tale glance at her, but the King seems enraptured with Anne, his eye falling on her swelling breast as much as his dinner. These people and their blasted customs. When Liz was pregnant she never turned him out of her bed. She said her mother never had the luxury and she came into the world just fine. He’d loved her pendulous breasts, her ripe belly. When things became too difficult to maneuver even from behind, he’d gone for brisk walks or worked late. Kings don’t ever have to go for brisk walks and when has Henry ever worked late? 

George Boleyn sits next to his mother, fussing with his sleeves and drinking too much. Lady Rochford chases the same piece of roasted capon around her plate. One of the jugglers uses Gregory’s cap to collect some brightly colored balls as they fly through the air. The king notices and applauds. 

“You have a fine son, sir,” Henry says, leaning toward him. He nods and thanks him. Henry reaches out for Anne’s hand, kisses it and places it on her belly. Anne looks sure that her’s will be a fine son, too.

+++

Gregory wants to walk the roving course, early the next morning. Richard comes with them, though he looks like he had too much cheer the night before. They make their way over the hard frosty ground, chasing up peacocks as they go, trying to guess where the targets will be placed. 

Gregory complains of the unfairness: his opponents practically live at Eltham. Outside the palace grounds the terrain is rougher, the frost thicker. Richard pulls his hat lower on his ears and says nothing, occasionally grunting while pointing out a low spot used in other years as cover for a wooden deer or rabbit. 

On their way back he spots Mary taking her morning turn on the gravel. He is about to wave to her when the king calls from the balcony. She stops in her tracks and Henry trots down the stairs to join her. They walk with long smooth strides on nimble legs, their pace perfectly matched. Their ease together is almost as painful to him as the facts of their history. 

As they approach, the king pauses and smiles broadly, waving, teasing them about getting the advantage of the day. Mary edges away from the king and he, Cromwell, goes to her side, takes her gloved hand in his. He is the picture of ease and contentment, a man who loves and trusts his wife. She has walked with an old friend: a pleasant sight, and no matter that the friend is the father of her children, no matter that on New Year’s Day he’d looked as if he wanted to roll her in a crust and eat her up. 

He doesn’t half wish that they were having a better time of things in the bedroom of late. It’s been more than three weeks since they had dealings and with each passing day his wife grows more irritable with the servants, curses a little more audibly when she drops a stitch or her needle. It is within his power to relieve this, of course, this morning if he wishes. She is pragmatic and a hand or a tongue will do as well as anything if there is any question about his being up to the task, but there is some mean accountant inside him, weighing his jealousy and his fear and his duty to the king against her. Though she could hardly have refused to walk with Henry, she needn’t have fallen into step with him so quickly. 

+++

He’s waiting his turn to shoot -- the king is taking his third, the first two having fallen just outside the target -- when Richard ducks in and whispers that Gregory has bested Henry Howard in the roving. The king puts his third in to great acclaim. 

As he steps up to draw his bow he notices a flash of white from the corner of his eye. If he were more high-handed he would be annoyed, ask the spectator to step back. He turns and sees that it is Mary’s hood flapping free in the wind. She is perpetually at war with hoods: Adelle is forever repinning them when they go awry. He loves to watch the little hairs work their way free round her face, sometimes taking the opportunity of tucking them back himself. As if she can read his thoughts, she smiles at him. In this moment, with the bow taut in his arms, he feels giddy, blushing like he did in Calais when she noticed him across a crowded room. He fires. Puts the arrow bang in the middle of the target. That’s the last of those, he thinks. The king needs to win after all. 

Mary gives a little “hooray” and it’s like the sun coming from behind a cloud. The last three weeks suddenly seem much longer. The time between now and evening is too much to be borne. They could steal away in the minutes between rounds to their room, disappear without being much missed for nearly an hour. He steps to the line, draws up, imagines the scene: hiking up her skirt, Mary bracing against a bedpost. His hand, still gloved in black leather, moves against the white of her skin and among the blond curls at the center of her. He shoots, putting it a hair’s breadth from the target. 

“Bad luck, Crom,” Henry calls. He lines up the last shot, thinking he will do it, he will catch her eye after this and take her back to their room. 

His last shot goes well into the grass of the butt. Polite applause. He shakes his head in mock disappointment, biting back his grin. He turns to find Mary, to wink at her and take her aside, but she is no longer standing in the same spot. Stepping back from the line, he scans the crowd for her. The targets are cleared before he spots the flash of white cloth, her hood blowing free again. She is walking across the lawn on the arm of her brother. He stands swaying in disbelief, watching them moving quickly across the lawn. 

“Something wrong, sir?” Richard asks as he hands him his bow, but he is already in pursuit, tracking his prey across the slippery, thawing ground. He feels the eyes of the crowd follow him, feels the king’s curiosity at his back as he walks. He moves as quickly as dignity will allow, his heart pounding in his chest, ‘she and George remain close,’ thundering in his ears. He is like a man in a helmet with the visor down, his vision trained on the tiny patch of world they occupy as he follows them up the steps and in through the palace doors.

The heat hits him. He’s been outside a long time, stripped of his outer layers for shooting. He starts sweating, scrambling to track them through the maze of corridors, spotting them at the end of one as they turn toward Boleyn’s room. 

“My Lord Rochford,” he calls, his voice full of ice: brittle, breaking, cold. “Stop if you please.” They pause, turn idly toward him. Mary’s face is puzzled. Boleyn’s is haughty and annoyed. 

“Step away, sir,” he calls again. 

“You can’t be serious,” Boleyn laughs.

“Unhand my wife!” He is still charging toward them. Mary’s face pales. She takes a step away from George, who releases her arm reluctantly. 

“Whatever for?” Boleyn sneers. 

He steps between brother and sister. “You are wanted outside, Mistress Cromwell,” he says to Mary. She doesn’t budge.

“What is the meaning of this?” Boleyn says, taking hold of his arm. “Do you now forbid my sister to see her mother?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he hisses, breaking George’s grip with his hand. He turns to take hold of Mary, escort her outside, but Boleyn reaches out and steps in front, blocking him. The knife is off his belt and in the palm of his hand before George can blink. He swivels and brings the blade to Boleyn’s throat.

“Good God, Thomas, put the knife away,” Mary says, sounding half exasperated, half afraid.

“You defend him!” he bleats.

“Get hold of yourself, you fool,” she says in a fierce whisper. “You know the penalty for fighting in the palace.” He lowers the blade and hides it away as quickly as it was drawn. 

“You’re a dead man, Cromwell!” Boleyn shouts in his face. 

“Care to test me?”

“Yes. Day after tomorrow. We duel like men of honor instead of thieves in the street.”

“Dueling is forbidden on palace grounds,” he says, remembering Mary’s warning.

“Then we’ll duel outside the palace grounds,” Boleyn says with impatience. “You’ll hear from my second.” Boleyn forces a smile, walking away. “Sister, you are welcome to this ruffian,” he says before ducking into his mother’s room.

Mary is already moving down the hall in the opposite direction, toward their rooms, at a furious pace. He follows her, calling her name weakly. The enormity of his mistake begins to dawn on him as he falls further behind her. A door slams in the distance and he fancies he hears the sound of a lock turning. 

He knocks quietly at first, building to a steady hammering, leaving off at intervals to put his ear to the door. Nothing. The door is thick, a solid two inches of oak. Not some low country tenement door that he could take down with his shoulder. Still, he considers the gesture of it, the self-sacrifice in a day of sacrificial gestures. He backs up, lowers his shoulder, is about to run at it, when he hears the lock tumble. He steps in, relieved to be spared the fruitless pain of an injured shoulder.

She sits on the bed, staring at her hood which is lying trampled on the floor. He picks it up and hands it to her. She takes it and folds it in her lap before speaking: 

“The cleverest man in England.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s what your friend Cranmer called you. And I thought so too.” She sounds sad, disappointed. Anger would be preferable. Understandable. “When you informed Johane Williams that you were marrying via a note to your cook, I chalked it up to a momentary whim. When you woke me up in our bed wearing a monster mask I figured, well, it was just a bit of folly. But this. How could you be so mistaken? To leap to this mad conclusion and act on it? You’ve played right into their hands! Did it not occur to you that there could be some other reason for brother and sister to repair to the house? And even when you saw us together, saw me looking at a loss for what could be the matter -- surely there must be some calamity for you to shout at us so, to charge like a stag,like a stag in spring -- did you not think then that you had the wrong end of the stick, sir?”

He shakes his head. 

“No. You blunder in like Tom Wyatt in his cups and practically accuse me of committing adultery with my brother. In public. Did you not say to me that you trusted me?”

“I did. I do. I don’t trust George. And neither should you. Just because he has an excuse at the ready about taking you to see your mother doesn’t mean you should believe him.”

“Oh I am quite certain my mother called for me. I’ve been expecting it since we arrived.”

“What did she want?”

“We’ll never know now because you stopped us before we got there.”

“But you have some idea? Some inkling?”

“Yes, I have an inkling.”

“Well?”

“I imagine she wanted to tell me that the king would welcome me back in his bed. Just until the baby comes, understand.”

“I don’t understand. How can you be so calm about this?”

“Don’t you? My mother has ever been the king’s bawd. There’s never been any other arrangement in my lifetime. I’m used to it.”

“Your mother?!”

“Yes, ever since she took his virginity all those years ago.”

He is stunned, rocking on his feet. “And George?”

“Her willing pawn. I know you hate George, but I really don’t think you ought to kill him, Thomas.”

“You are mistaken. I don’t hate George. ‘Hate’ is too ordinary a word. I want to send George to Hell with your uncle. I want to see his head on a pike, his bits chopped off and fed to dogs--”

“Enough! I don’t suppose it occurred to you that George was subject to the same visits from my uncle that I was.”

This silences him. Indeed it had not occurred to him. 

“And with George being my sister’s favorite, the king will have no choice but to put you in the Tower if you kill him.”

He grits his teeth. “Fair enough. I won’t kill George.”

“Has it crossed your mind, clever man, that George might kill you.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And have you considered what will happen to your numerous children? Your servants? Your mother, Mercy? If you should be killed?”

“This will all be provided for.”

“I blame Cranmer, really. But I suppose it is my own fault to be guided by such a man. ‘Cromwell is a wise and gentle father.’” She sighs as if in the grip of nostalgia. “I wonder what he would say about you leaving them all orphaned?”

“They will have you.”

“That’s putting a lot of trust in me. Still: better you trust me in death than in life, I suppose. But God’s Blood, I have known your children two months.”

“They love you already. You’ll be all right.”

“They tolerate me for your sake.”

“You underestimate your charm, my love.”

“Your love?” She unfolds the hood, wads it up in her fist.” Yes, there’s a fair point, Thomas. What about me?”

“You’ll wear green stockings to my funeral as we discussed.”

“So help me God, I will kill you here and now myself if you don’t take this seriously. Did you consider how I might grieve for you? For the first time in my life,” she says, voice breaking, “I find happiness with a man and he throws it away to settle a point of pride.”

He sits down on the bed, reaches out for her. She pushes him away. He stands up again, paces, tries to look at it objectively. How would he advise her, if she were one of his neighbors at Austin Friars coming to him with a problem?

“You’ll be a rich widow. You won’t be lonely long. You can remarry if you wish.”

“Thanks for the permission.”

“Isn’t this just what you wanted anyway? Freedom from your family? Independence and security?”

She is quiet, biting her lip as if stuck for an answer. He carries on: “And you’ll have a great romantic story. The man who loved you, who died for your honor.”

“Oh no. You won’t lay this on me. You are a fool who fights out of his own jealousy and insecurity. I have no honor to defend.”

“No, you’re wrong there.” He sits down again, taking her face in his hands. She does not push him away this time. “I… I was mistaken. I was jealous. I admit it. I have eyes, you know. I could see the king wanted you back. It was a moment of madness, yes, but it was motivated by love. I wanted to protect you from them.“

She looks back at him a moment, tearing up, softening. Then she frowns, pushing his hands gently away. “Good lord, Thomas, protect me from yourself. You could talk a starving man out of his last crust of bread. I can deal with them. I have done my whole life.” She reaches out, touches his hand. “If this was a moment of madness, then admit it. Apologize. Grovel. Make it go away. Please.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why ever not!?”

“Because,” he pauses, thinking. It is difficult to express. He is only just realizing why he accepted the duel. “When the Cardinal died, George Cavendish asked God to strike down Wolsey’s enemies. And I offered, I offered to do it for him. George Boleyn, whether he was your uncle’s victim or not, has wronged you.” She looks at him, half-believing perhaps. “He violates the king with his continued attentions to your sister. And I have weighed my duty to him versus my duty to you ever since you told me of this terrible business. And if I can not tell the king then I can at least defend his honor. George should be made to pay for his actions. I will give him a mark he won’t forget, or die trying.”

“I should have known! This is about Henry! Your duty to Henry. Your jealousy. Your guilt. If you could bear Henry a son, I have no doubt you would!”

It’s all he can say. The truth, all of it. If she won’t hear it, there’s nothing more to do. He heads to the door. 

“Where are you going? I’m not done with you!”

“You will have to make do for now. I have a tournament to finish. Will you join me?” She shakes her head. He stops, chuckling to himself. 

“What?”

“It’s ironic, I suppose, that had we not beat the Boleyns early in the tournament, George would not have been free to escort you anywhere.”

She turns away, frowning. “I suppose you’ll want to practice for this duel.”

“I hadn’t thought that far, but yes. Richard can help. Gregory is good with a sword. We’ll muddle through.”

He shuts the door quietly and heads back outside. As he passes through the front hall, the guards look at one another and back at him. The news is out, he supposes. No going back now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to Onstraysod for her sharp-eyed help and patience as an editor.


	10. Mock Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cromwell prepares for the duel.

The padded doublet is borrowed from Gregory and though they’ve loosened the laces as much as possible, it still binds about the middle when he takes a deep breath, which is often. They stand in a courtyard in the morning sun, and if he doesn’t think too much about why they are there he might even say they are having a good time. 

“Draw!” Gregory commands. Richard’s blade flashes out and he has only just enough time to bring his own to block. The force of the blow squeezes a grunt from somewhere inside him. Christ, man, leave something for George Boleyn. He steers the blow aside and, in doing so, brings Richard within reach of the dagger in his left hand. 

“You should give him a touch, sir, to show you can,” Gregory scolds. He smiles to himself because the boy’s been reading his Liechtenauer. Though the practice is needed they’d do well to remember that, at the end of the day, a duel is a brawl with a few niceties attached. 

They stand aside and reset. Richard attacks from his left, he raises his sword to it -- again the power in his nephew’s mock sword -- he feels compressed, diminished, after absorbing the blow. Richard comes in close, locking daggers with him. They break the hold and, on the reset, Gregory says Richard should try attacking from further back: since Boleyn is a tall man, he may try to use his reach to his advantage. Richard nods comes in with a lot of light, dazzling cuts toward his face. They spatter mud as they dance and parry and even with his strength halved by standing too far away, Richard’s blows still challenge him. Stepping forward, he favors his good leg and Richard switches grips and brings the sword up from below, stinging him on the back of the thigh, knocking dust out of the padded hose. 

“Below the hip, Richard,” Gregory scolds.

“Sorry sir,” Richard says. “You all right?”

“Of course, don’t apologize,” he pants.He wants to tell Gregory that he should be prepared for hits to the leg, but he doesn’t want to waste his breath.

“Reset!” Gregory calls. He, Cromwell, takes the attack and moves forward on his good leg then, when Richard has committed to defending from that side, switches his weight to the other. He brings his blade in for a controlled tap on his nephew’s shoulder.

“Touch!” Gregory shouts, beaming. 

“Very good, sir!” Richard says.

He shakes his head. “How will I train when you are so happy to be beaten?”

“I shall try to frown in future, sir,” Richard says, practicing a scowl. 

Rafe charges into the courtyard carrying a scrap of paper.

“I have terms,” he shouts while still on the run. Gregory snatches the note and reads: “The place: a hill just outside the castle grounds, over the bridge. We were there yesterday for the roving, I think.”

“Boleyn says it’s a high, level spot,” Rafe says, a bit breathless from running.

“We will double-check that,” Richard says, wiping his brow with his shirt sleeve. 

Gregory carries on reading. “Swords and daggers. You can use your left hand, sir. That is a relief. He leaves the sword choice to you. What do you prefer?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what are you most used to?”

“A shorter, heavier weapon.” The last sword he carried in the low countries was more of a glorified knife, good for fighting at close quarters.

“ What did you use in battle?” the boy asks.

“I don’t know. I found it on the ground. You tell Boleyn were going to do that. We’re going to do ground swords.”

The boys give him a look, unimpressed with his levity.

“What we’re using now will be fine. Only sharp.”

“Rapiers.”

“Rapiers it is then,” he says, studying the windows in the gallery above the courtyard. He could swear he saw Mary a moment earlier. 

 

+++  
He is called in to the privy chamber, still wearing the padded doublet, carrying his cloak over his arm. Henry is reclining with his leg propped up on the end of a chaise. Before he can bow, the king motions him to stop.

“Sit,” the king orders, moving his leg. 

“Your Majesty wanted to see me?”

“I hear from my wife that you drew on her brother in the palace. And that you are sworn to duel tomorrow. Is it true?”

“It is true. I regret drawing on him in the palace. It was a moment of temper.”

“My wife says I should order you to apologize and forego the duel. Strictly speaking, he should not have challenged a commoner. I mean no disrespect, Crom, but it is not quite the thing.” 

He must tread carefully. Still, an order from Anne is not an order from the King.

“I understand, of course, but with all due respect, Your Majesty, I cannot back down in good conscience.”

“What has he done, our brother, to warrant such reproof?”

“I cannot say, sir.”

“If you cannot say, you will have to give it up.”

“It involves a delicate matter. A family matter. Can I speak freely, my lord?”

“Of course,” Henry says, shifting on the chaise, looking uncomfortable.

“You know me to be a man of reason, do you not?”

“I do.”

“Then trust me to know when I have been provoked.”

The king nods. “This delicate matter... I think I know what it is. I will only say that these Boleyns presume too much. They think they know my will.”

“Lord Rochford has often vexed me, as I’m sure you are aware. But this is more than a mere personal dislike. He has overstepped the bounds of common decency.”

“You fight for the honor of your wife?” Henry asks. And yours, he thinks.

“I do.”

“Would it help if I said that the Boleyns have noticed me looking in her direction on occasion and thought that it meant something?”

He nods. 

“But I meant nothing by it. We are old friends. You understand, don’t you Crom?” Henry says, patting him on the arm in that reassuring way of his.

“Of course, Your Majesty. You have never given me a moment’s unease,” he lies. “But this business with Rochford, I can’t let it drop.”

Henry sighs. “Anne says I should put you in the Tower if you refuse to apologize. But I can’t help but feel somewhat responsible for this mess.”

“Not at all, sir. You mustn’t think that.” He forces a tight smile. “This is between myself and Lord Rochford, who has impugned the honor of my wife. Now I must not say further. I have said too much already. Put me in the Tower if you must, but I will not change my mind.”

“No. No, I’m not putting anyone in the Tower. I understand you, Crom. A man must protect his family, else he is not a man.” 

“Precisely. Thank you for understanding,” he says, and thinks of his last duel fought over a dice game, the details of which are beyond even his powers of memory.

“You duel outside the palace grounds?”

“Yes, sir, just outside, in the roving fields.”

“I cannot, of course, be seen to attend. But go with my blessing and do me a favor, will you Crom?”

“Of course, if possible.”

“Don’t get yourself killed. I’ll never get my divorce without you,” Henry says smiling. 

“I will try my best, Your Majesty.”

+++

He squats at the grate, working the bellows. His supper tray, emptied and licked clean, sits on a nearby stool. Christophe is due any moment to help him with his boots. There is a quick knock and he calls, “Come in,” hearing the latch go.

“Help me off with these, will you, I’m too tired to do it myself,” he says over his shoulder.

“I’ll do my best,” says a feminine voice: Mary’s. 

He turns around to face her, his hands black with soot. She is dressed for bed, wearing her velvet dressing gown; the cloth is a pale blue he’d picked out because it matched her eyes. 

“I didn’t think you wanted to see me after yesterday.”

“I thought, under the circumstances, a truce was called for.”

“You won’t change my mind,” he says, stepping to the basin, scrubbing his hands in the soapy water there.

“I know. If the king failed to convince you then what chance do I have. After all, I’m merely your wife.” So she has heard about his audience. Well, there are no secrets at court. Or precious few, anyway.

He dries his hands and sits on the edge of the bed, his limbs heavy with the day’s exertions. If she’s looking for a fight, she’d better get in line.

“Where’s that boy?” he yawns.

“Oh I sent him to bed. I’ll get those,” she says, kneeling down. Her hair glides over the velvet gown like straw blown across water. She grips the top of his left boot and pulls it off in one smooth motion.

“There. I still have the knack. I used to do this for my father,” she says with an air of nostalgia.

“How can you speak fondly of him? Of any of them?”

“I told you, my father walks in his sleep. He’s of no use but he does no harm either.”

He grunts skeptically, but lets it drop. She takes hold of the right boot, struggles a bit before it finally comes free, sending her toppling on her back, laughing. He smiles and offers her a hand up before pulling himself to his feet with the aid of the bedpost. He teeters gingerly back to the basin.

“Why don’t I help you?” she says, taking the sponge from his hand. He doesn’t answer. He needs to save his strength, rest. He wishes she’d go away. He’s terrified that she will.

She pulls the hem of his damp shirt free from his hose.

“Raise your arms,” she orders briskly, all business. He complies and she pulls the shirt over his head and tosses it over a chair. The chill air raises goosepimples on his clammy skin. She takes off her dressing gown and places it carefully over the back of the same chair.

“I don’t want to get the sleeves wet,” she explains. 

He nods and begins untying first his hose, then his codpiece. He wriggles free of them with as much dignity as he can muster while she fusses at the basin with the soap and sponge. She kneels down, her face blank, and works methodically like a servant or a nurse, rarely making eye contact. Just as well, he tells himself. The water warms him as she scrubs his flanks, his backside, around his cock, over the grizzled terrain of his scar, soap dropping in fizzing puddles on the tops of his feet. She reaches for a towel and buffs his legs dry: his skin is awake, clean, tingling. She stands up, looks him in the eye. He wants to kiss her, feels a kind of pleasant ache at the thought, but he holds his arms out from his side so that she can scrub his torso instead. Rest first. They can work this out tomorrow. After. 

He remembers the last duel: the only duel. The night before he’d gone out for a drink, seen his opponent in a tavern, given him a cordial nod before taking a barmaid up to bed. He was foolish, then lucky: his opponent died a week later of the lingering, sucking wound he’d given him. It could have gone the other way round. That was twenty years ago. He was young and strong and stupid. 

Water has dripped onto her shirt which now clings to her breasts. He looks away, his eye resting on the basin: smooth, round, glowing in the candlelight. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his own arm out stiff, like Vulcan frozen in mid-hammer-swing as she moves the sponge across his shoulder. She stops, rings out the sponge in the basin. 

“All done.”

“I think you missed a spot,” he says and she turns back to argue. He sees his own arm reach out to her, catch her round the waist, like a man watching the scene in a dream. He feels light, floating like the sponge, fizzing like lather inside, filling with a surge of strength which he tells himself that he will not need tomorrow. He will find different strength tomorrow. He doesn’t believe the wives’ tales about seed being a man’s strength. She coils her body around him, firm, damp, her nipples hard through the wet shirt. 

“You’ll be the death of me,” he whispers, breaking the kiss. 

“Don’t even joke--”

“I only meant that I should rest up for tomorrow.”

“Rest later. I’ll do most of the work. I promise.”

He pulls her in again, the same mouth hot and wet, searching him out. His mind is emptied of jealousy, of worry. There is nothing but her mouth anymore. He sits down on the bed, tugs her into his lap. She grips his face with both hands, working the best angle, the deepest kiss she can manage, and when she comes up for air, still cradling his skull in her fingers, she looks into his face as if searching for something. He falls back against the bed and she climbs onto him, hiking her shirt up to her waist, straddling his body, her weight on his hips an anchorage against the lightness he feels. He places his hands on her hips, feels the soft rise of her belly against his thumbs, pressing into the flesh that resists just a bit and is soft at the same time. In their linen cupboard days, he had tried to tell her what it was like to touch her. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe she was the only friend he could tell. 

She leans forward so that her hair falls down around his face. She smells of soap and something more, like a damp earthen floor, like coal smoke, like sweat. It is a smell out of memory: home. She takes his hand and maneuvers it inside her, as much for his benefit as her own: she is plenty ready to go. The feel of her on his hand, slick and wet, firm and slippery, makes him groan and stiffen. He is in her expert grip, pulsing in her hand, as hard as he’s been in weeks, while she slides against his hand. They could proceed like this to the end and it would be fine, except he has no argument should he meet God tomorrow. She stops her sliding and backs up, taking him inside her, tightening around him with toothless animal jaws. She starts to move and he feels that he is floating, feeling light like the sponge, wondering if this is what it is like to swoon. When he is near he opens his eyes, sees her face looking down serenely, no longer intent in her purpose. She must have finished without his noticing, which makes a change. Usually there are a fair number of oaths. He moves his hips upward and she somehow takes him in deeper, finds another vice to grip him inside. He tries to pull back, pull out, but he can’t. His eyes widen in panic.

“It’s all right, don’t worry.”

“Are you sure? You didn’t want another baby.”

“It’s all right. Just let go.” And he does and she is floating around him and with him and they are bobbing along on a warm soapy tide. 

“It had better be a girl,” she says, collapsing onto him, pressing kisses into his face, his neck.

“It will be. I hope. What made you change your mind?” 

“I don’t know. Circumstances, I suppose. But I’d been thinking about it for awhile. You know there is the work of it. The body. The uncertainty. Risk to me for one thing. And for what? We have a lot of children already. But we don’t have one together and that…”

“It makes a difference, yes. I feel the same.”

“And when I realized it might never happen, I thought, maybe we should at least try to make a go of it. But I didn’t decide really until -- well, just then. It was just a feeling that everything would be all right.”

He takes her hand and kisses it.

“Now go to sleep, you idiot,” she says gently. “I’ve got to get up early to pray for you.”

“I told you no candles.”

“No candles. But prayers won’t go amiss.”

“No, your prayers will not go amiss. But wear the stockings just in case.” She punches him weakly in the chest, rolls off of him, and then slides back up to his side. He puts his arm around her, kissing her hair. She is laughing, and crying a little too, he thinks. He can’t tell. The candle has long since burned out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Some notes about swords and dueling:** Rapiers were just coming into England at this time. They don't appear in the official list of arms till 1540, which explains how Cromwell isn't quite familiar with the sword or even the name of it. 
> 
> Lichtenauer is mentioned. He wrote the principal text on long sword dueling. Cromwell uses the name more generally to show that Gregory has been studying, since Lichtenauer would not have had specific advice for that particular situation. 
> 
> The tradition of dueling came out of trial by combat, where, strictly speaking, they were only fought between nobles. In the early 16th century, dueling en chemise (with no armour or padding) using a one-handed sword became more fashionable, first on the continent, then in England. The code of dueling familiar to us from the movies and from Shakespeare was not yet developed in this time. At this period, many instructors taught their pupils moves that would be unthinkable to those familiar with the rules of fencing today: hitting below the hip, kicking, grappling, gouging with the hilt of the sword, etc. Historians have a tendency to ignore fights between commoners, brawls and other less formal types of dueling, but that doesn't mean that didn't happen. Many common men, especially those who had been in the army, had training with and access to swords and were just as likely to end an argument with a challenge to duel as were the nobility.
> 
>  **Thanks:** to Onstraysod for her help with editing.


	11. Conveyances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sword fighting is hard.

Christophe wakes him, coming into their room with the lantern before dawn. He reaches over to kiss Mary goodbye, but he finds that she’s not there. He sits up, shielding his eyes from the light. 

“She is in the church, master. Adelle woke her. You did not notice?”

“I was dead to the world.” 

Christophe looks puzzled.

“Poor choice of words. It’s an expression, it means I was sound asleep.” 

“English is full of such things. We should go back to speaking French.”

“No. How will you ever learn? What if something happens to me and you have to find a new master?

“I wish I could fight this George Boleyn,” he says and spits on the floor at the name. 

“Don’t spit,” he says, standing up, wrapping a sheet round his waist. “No one will hire a servant that spits.”

“Can it be true? Are the English so nice?” Christophe asks sleepily.

“No, but they hold their help to higher standards.” 

Christophe carries away the basin with the previous night’s wash water. He turns away to hide his blush as the boy passes and, in doing so, looks over at the bed: the shape of Mary’s body is still imprinted on the mattress. “No need for the basin. I’m clean enough to fight George Boleyn,” he says to the boy when he returns.

“Fair enough,” Christophe says, looking pleased with himself. “Did I say it right?”

“Yes, but you shouldn’t have said it all. It’s too familiar. It’s not your place to decide what is fair or not when it comes to your master.”

Christophe looks downcast, handing him a clean shirt and hose out of the wardrobe. He puts on the shirt, pads across the icy stone floor to stand by the fire. 

“No doublet today,” he says, balancing on one leg, steadying himself with a hand on the mantle, trying to put on his hose. 

“Adelle says you will lose. She says George Boleyn has studied with a great master in France.” Christophe hands him a cloak, then sits on a stool near the fire with his head in his hands. 

“Adelle has her usual high opinion of me, then.”

“Oh! She did not mean she wants you to lose,” Christophe says, looking up, rubbing his eyes. “She cries as much as any of us at the thought.”

“Have you been crying?” 

“No, no,” he says through a yawn, lapsing into French. “I am only tired.”

Christophe hands him his boots -- still damp inside from the previous day-- then his cap. He adjusts the latter at his reflection in the glass, thinking that he looks a little bleary himself. He turns around to find the boy sitting with his back turned, shoulders shaking. 

He takes the boy’s arm, gently gets him to his feet. “You need to keep the look out for Mary today. Can you do that?” Christophe nods. He wonders if there will be a hug. The moment passes. He heads out the door alone, saying over his shoulder, “Keep the look out, then find Mary in the chapel as soon as you know.”

The corridor is dark and cold; a few torches hang in a lobby where he sees his boys waiting, slumped on a bench, leaning on one another to stay upright. In a few moments he will be with them -- cheerful, invincible -- but for now he walks these last few steps alone, his guts in turmoil, wondering what, if anything, a man on the way to the block feels.

+++

The boys from Castiglione’s Academy kick up dust, filing into the piazza. They come, he supposes, to drum up trade for their school, maybe earn a little pocket money. They are wearing matching green doublets and hose dyed like a jewel box: contrasting stripes on each leg and codpieces. They square off in pairs, with shining mock swords and daggers, fighting quick easy drills which are choreographed to look real, but are little more than theater. Put them on a battlefield, he thinks, give them any old sword they found on the ground, bite and gouge and kick them, and they would be as likely to come away with a wound as anyone. He puts a coin in the cap as it passes around the Sunday afternoon crowd. 

He thinks of the Castiglione boys in Ghent, when some over-extended berger’s son doesn’t want to give up the family silver without a fight. The boy steps toward him with the same skinny sword, the same lurid tights. He throws a chair, hoping money isn’t still owed on it, and sends the weapon skittering across the parquet floor; draws his knife to the lad’s throat and growls in French, “Now we can do this the easy way or the hard way, my boy. Your choice.” 

He thinks of the Castiglione boys now as he sees George and his second, Henry Howard, pacing over the ground in the appointed place: they wear green padded doublets, exquisitely tailored, and plum colored tights, just red enough to be legal. He wonders if they consulted on the matching outfits or if it was an accident. All they need are little pigskin purses to complete the look. 

By the time he and his boys arrive, the pacing has ceased and Boleyn and Howard are calmly chatting about Wyatt’s latest. They are perhaps a bit too ostentatious in their disregard of the situation, a sure sign that their demeanor is a put-on. Richard carries the swords and unceremoniously leans them against the trunk of a nearby tree. Howard steps forward, bows, and asks if Master Cromwell wants to apologize. Richard shakes his head and Boleyn calls, “Shall we proceed, then?”

“By all means,” he says. He inspects his swords for knicks, making sure of the point, before taking off his cloak and shirt and handing them to Richard. Boleyn looks up from examining his weapons and elbows Howard. 

“I’ve heard of fighting en chemise, but this is carrying it a bit far,” Howard laughs.

“You can’t be serious,” Boleyn sneers.

“You are welcome to wear what you will, my Lord Rochford. For myself I’ve seen wounds go bad when a piece of shirt goes in with a sword.”

Boleyn appears to blanch slightly before barking, “Harry! Help me off with this damned thing. I’ll not be outdone by this...this lawyer.” 

Richard brings him his cloak to throw over his shoulders while he’s waiting. They exchange a rye smile at the comedy unfolding on the far side of the clearing: Howard hurrying over to help his friend, fumbling with laces in the back of the doublet until at last Boleyn is suitably stripped and steaming into the chill January air. 

“By the blood, Cromwell, you’ll pay for this,” Boleyn says, fighting a shiver. 

He lifts his arms, letting his cloak fall to the ground. 

“En garde!” Boleyn says, stepping forward.

“Draw!” he replies. “You’re not in France now, brother.” 

Boleyn rushes forward, thrusting his sword straight at him. Gregory was right: he strikes from further back than can be comfortably reached. He, Cromwell, swats the weapon aside easily, keeping himself planted as Boleyn bobs and weaves, searching for a way in. His arms are still stiff from the previous day’s practice, but Boleyn’s blows are feeble in comparison to Richard’s. After a few minutes, he longs to move more, feels stiff and cold, even bored with Boleyn’s tactics. Perhaps that is the point? That he will be bored into making a mistake? 

He swats Boleyn’s weapon aside with violence and locks daggers with him. Boleyn twists his blade away and retreats. He strides forward on his good leg, worrying Boleyn’s head with a series of cutting blows, the first of which the taller man only just manages to block. He keeps an eye on his opponent’s dagger and the long arm attached to it. Boleyn’s dagger glances off his own, heading for his hip. His heart leaps into his throat as Boleyn’s blade takes a slice out of his upper hose, leaving the flesh underneath it intact. The crowd, which has gathered a dozen yards away, gasps. He hears Rafe saying to someone, probably Gregory, “No, no, he’s unharmed, look: it was only the hose.” 

At least he is feeling warmer. A little too warm after that. Boleyn comes forward again, thrusting with a sword, looking for an in. They are both sweating now, glowing in the sun that peeks above the treeline and glances dazzling off their swords. They circle around to keep the glare to the side. The frosty ground starts to soften with the sun and all Boleyn’s movement, becoming muddy and slick in places. Fearing a fall, he stays rooted to his spot, defending it with everything he has as each thrust of Boleyn’s strikes a little nearer the mark. His sword arm shakes with fatigue, but Boleyn’s attack is relentless, landing a cutting blow perilously close to his bare neck. His only hope is to bring his opponent in close enough to lock blades again. 

He wracks his brain for an insult. “Which convent did you learn to fight at then?” is always a good one, though perhaps a bit rude toward the French court. Might get back to Anne and Henry. He could insult Lady Rochford, but he fears they might end shaking hands and going off to drink together. 

“When you are dead, Lord Rochford,” he says, hoarsely through heavy breath, “and your father defaults on that chimney loan, shall I pull down Hever and have it made into pig sties?” 

Nothing. Boleyn glares and replies, “Any house you’d live in would be a sty, so why bother?”

He laughs despite himself. That does it. Boleyn grits his teeth and charges forward a few steps with a cutting blow to his dagger arm. He blocks with his sword and drives Boleyn’s weapon to a locked position above their heads. They are close enough now to smell one another, to feel the heat of one another’s breath. Their daggers clash together and he slowly drives the blade toward Boleyn’s exposed, soft belly. While Boleyn’s attention is focused there, he moves his hip forward and gets his foot behind the taller man’s leg. From there it is a matter of making a small thrust with his sword to send him reeling backward. Easier said than done. His sword arm is screaming now with exhaustion. He grunts, pulling a burst of strength from somewhere, jerking Boleyn over backward, stumbling into a slippery spot on the turf. The long legs go out from under the man and he collapses on his back with a spray of mud. Boleyn drops his dagger in an attempt to sit up, but it is too late. He strides forward and puts his foot down heavily on Boleyn’s chest, pinning Boleyn’s weapon with his own. Boleyn swats feebly at him. He answers with a vicious, hacking blow that sends Boleyn’s sword flying free. He brings the point of his own sword to rest under Boleyn’s Adams apple. 

“Yield?”

“Yes, dammit.” 

He looks down at Boleyn and is reminded of the tale of young George’s trip into the moat at Hever. This one does not learn his lessons easily.

“Smart man,” he says, removing his foot, leaving a muddy print on the bare white chest. He puts a hand down to help him up.

Boleyn springs to his feet, tries to pull away, but finds himself held fast, a dagger inches from his face. With the last of his strength, he pulls the taller man’s arm, lifting himself up to whisper in his ear, “Stay out of your sister’s bedroom. If I hear of you in there again, I’ll cut your prick off.” He rests the dagger point on the younger man’s ear and, with a precise motion, removes a tiny divot of flesh. 

That is a lesson he won’t soon forget. His message conveyed, he releases his grip and Boleyn staggers across the clearing, gasping, clutching his ear, blood flowing between his fingers. He sheathes his dagger and Richard steps forward to take his sword, saying, “Well done sir. I knew you would carry the day.” 

“Let’s hope that lot see it that way,” he says, nodding to the crowd which is surging toward them, Thomas Boleyn in front, howling, red-faced. 

“Cromwell, what have you done!??” Rafe and Gregory are the only ones left behind, waiting as Richard retrieves his clothes from the limb of the tree. The four of them head back to the palace, his cloak thrown over his shoulders in haste. As they approach, he spots Christophe on the balcony: upon seeing his master unscathed, the boy runs shouting into the palace. Anne is on her balcony, her face tiny and pale, peering out from her great, black stole.

“He’ll be all right, Marchioness. Just a scratch.” he calls up to her, cheerfully. She looks back stonily before turning on her heel and marching inside without a word. He walks into the palace, past the guards, some of whom have surely lost money betting on George Boleyn. He is well on his way to his rooms when he spots her, scurrying toward him, beads still clutched in her fist. 

“Thomas! Thank God!” she says, rushing up, flinging her arms around his neck, dragging him into a kiss. She pulls back and looks at him, and he knows what she wants to ask but doesn’t dare. “He’s fine. Just a mark to remember the day. Nothing fatal.” She nods, and he puts his arm over her shoulders and they walk toward their bedroom. A knot of people can be seen at the end of the corridor: some servants, a few bystanders, his boys. He opens the door, hauls her inside with both arms, and boots the door shut. She collapses into him, her face buried in his chest, her hands searching beneath the fur of his cloak. 

“What’s this? Where’s your shirt?”

“Richard has it, I think. Wasn’t time to put it back on.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I got undressed to fight.”

“Whatever for?”

“Well, it is meant to be safer. But truth be told, I did it to vex your brother. It worked too. He was vexed.”

“I’m sorry I missed that,” she says, untying his cloak, pushing it back from his shoulders. She carefully folds it over a chair. He toes off his boots, then looks up at Mary who has unpinned her hood and is folding it neatly on the chair with his cloak. 

“Why are you getting undressed, love?” he asks, smiling.

“Wait. Why are you getting undressed?”

“I’m changing clothes. I expect to be called away soon. Your sister looked displeased when last I saw her.”

She laughs, “I thought...the way you kicked the door shut--”

“It was a nice thought,” he says, catching her around the waist, pulling her in for a kiss. “You know,” he whispers, breaking the kiss, “I thought I might not see you again when I woke up.”

She takes his hand and kisses his monstrous knuckle, holding it to her cheek. “I thought it would be easier for you if I was already gone. Help you focus.”

“Oh I was focused all right. It was a sad scene. Christophe blubbering, me staring forlornly at your empty space in the bed. Blushing over that damned wash basin.”

She smiles and kisses him again, letting her hands rove over his bare chest, down his sides, coming to rest on his hips.

“Good God, what’s this?” she asks, her finger poking through the hole in his hose made by George’s knife.

“Narrow escape.”

She pulls him closer, burying her head in his arms, the lovely warmth of her spreading across his body. His cock jumps at the thought of her desire. It’s clear she wants him. Thought they were going to it, poor lass. How he adores her for that. But there is no time. The king’s men will be here any minute. He may be spending the evening in the Tower for all he knows. 

“There’s something I must tell you, my love,” he says gently, taking her face in his hands. “I don’t want you to hear it from anyone else.”

“What?” she says, her brow creasing with suspicion. “What have you done now?”

“That mark I gave George. It was after he had yielded. There was a hue and cry from your family. It’s only going to get louder. Henry is...well, he’s very fond of his chivalry, his code. He won’t understand.”

“Did you do it in temper?” she asks, sounding desperate.

“No, it was calm and deliberate.”

“Could you not say it was an accident?”

“Maybe. I don’t want to, but maybe. Yes. My body was between the knife and most of the onlookers.” He can’t be too sure of young Howard, though. “I could say my hand slipped, say George moved suddenly and the knife got in the way.”

He lets go of her and sits down on the bed, frowning, thinking of young Howard. He does not want to call him a liar in public. Seems like salting the wound.

“Your pride got you into this mess, Thomas. Now it’s time to be humble. Play dumb. Say whatever it takes to save your neck.”

“Your family will come at me.”

“Let them. Five minutes alone in a room with me will shut them up for good on the subject.”

“If I have my way, you’ll never be alone in a room with any of them ever again.” 

“Even Anne?”

“Especially Anne. She will kill you herself with her bare hands. You didn’t see the look on her face just now.”

“Then you could go to them, tell them you know about--”

“They know I know. My warning to George made that clear. They also know I won’t expose them because of the risk to you.”

“Risk?”

“You could be tried for it too. It’s still a crime.”

She looks shocked, as if this is the first this has occurred to her. This damned family. What do they think laws are for? She sits down next to him on the bed. “There has to be a way.”

“Your family is like Ovid’s hydra: chop off one head and another pair grow in its place.”

“We could run away,” she says, gripping his arm, resting her head on his bare shoulder. “Leave the country for awhile, like we’ve always talked of.”

“If it comes down to it, yes, we’ll have to.” He pets her hair. “ But I don’t want to. If I leave the king now my enemies will be emboldened. There are plenty of them, not just your family, and some outside of England.”

“You’re right, of course. You can’t quit. And what’s more you couldn’t quit Henry, even if you wanted to.”

“I know it,” he sighs.

“What do you call it in chess, when you fall back to avoid a trap?”

“A strategic retreat?”

“Yes. A strategic retreat: You say it was an accident. And you say we all need to go home right away. Mercy has taken a turn for the worse.”

“That’s good. Henry won’t buy it, of course, but it will give him an out, a way to save face with your family if he wants to keep me.”

“He’d be a fool to let you go. He knows it. Just give him some time to remember it.”

“In a week or so when things have calmed down,” he says, hope returning to his voice, “I can resume my duties. Meet with the Papal Nuncio.”

“When Anne sees you back hard at work on her behalf,” she says, matching his enthusiasm, “she’ll have no choice but to back down a bit.” There is a knock at the door: Gregory relaying a message from the king.

“I have to go.”

“Good luck. Remember: strategic retreat.” 

“Thanks, I will.”

“Thank you, Thomas.”

“For what?” he asks, kissing her hand, smiling. 

“For this.” 

He shakes his head, confused.

“Do you realize this is the first time that you have let me into your plans, your schemes?”

“Well, you’re a good schemer.”

“Damn right, I’m a good schemer,” she says, wiping away a tear. 

+++

_I don’t want to spend the rest of my life dealing in conveyances._

It’s what he’d said to Liz when she’d tried to talk him out of going to work for the cardinal. And here he was now, back at his practice, transferring a fat parcel, taking his fat cut. Conveyance. Not that his work for Henry was much different: bigger parcels, even bigger cuts. 

Chapuys stops by to gloat and give him the gossip: Anne wants to publish a pamphlet about him, hopes to get the people to rally against his cowardly behavior at the duel. He receives the news cheerfully, saying it means she has given up twisting Henry’s arm. Let her commission her pamphlet. He knows every scribbler in the city, knows how to bribe the delivery boys so their wares get dropped in the Thames when they are meant to be tacked to the walls of public houses. Maybe he should have his own pamphlet made up about George and Anne, complete with illustrations? Best not. Mary would kill him. Unable to get a rise out of him, Chapuys goes away, wishing him luck insincerely. 

He flips through his mail halfheartedly. There are a fistful of angry letters from neighbors complaining about the fence line, one threatening legal action. Don’t they know if they persist it will end with him owning all their houses, having all the land?

There is a letter from de Montmorency apologizing for sending an aid to meet with the Nuncio. “Mon cher, Monsieur Cromwell, I’m afraid I must decline your gracious invitation.” He should leave that one out for Mary. It will give her something to do, reading between the lines. 

There is a letter from the Scottish border begging for troops, supplies, money. This was Norfolk’s patch, damn him. Young Howard won’t be up to it, not alone anyway. He can hardly go on the road with the lad after what happened after the duel, now can he? Hauled before the king, he’d talked in circles while young Howard had stammered that he was a liar and a blackguard. In the end, Henry sent them all home to cool off. 

There’s a letter from his man in Stepney. The “cottage,” as Mary calls it, is almost ready. He will send her there in the summer to wait out the heat and the plague and grow fat. He will have to follow Henry, of course, the usual round of hunting followed by eating their hosts out of house and home. He pictures her in a garden, the sun dappling her hair, her belly ripe. She is eating a pear, the juice running down her chin. Sweet. Must he follow the king? What if he were to invent some business, some scheme, to keep him home? But he is getting ahead of himself. He still has not heard from Henry. 

He scoops up the letters and dumps them in a file. Let them all come at him. What can they do? He has shored up his walls, put extra guards on the doors, hired a food taster: just in case. There is a stench of fear coming from Austin Friars. The Boleyns circle him, driven by it. Chapuys follows the scent, snuffling through the square like an animal. De Montmorency can probably smell it across the Channel. But the stench is bait, a scrap of rotten game laid out by the hunter to lure in the predators. He will bring them in close and destroy them. Henry has no one else to send to meet with the Nuncio. Word will come any minute. A messenger, a letter bearing the royal seal. If he feels the similarity to the cardinal’s situation, or to Catherine’s, then he does not show it. He sits patiently, watching the light fade in his courtyard, safely behind his wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big squishy hugs to Onstraysod for her help as always.


	12. Easement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cromwell adjusts to life after Henry.

Thomas Audley stops by for a visit, his new chain of office gleaming over his somber black doublet, his beard freshly pruned into a little point at the end of his chin.

“Congratulations, Lord Chancellor.” 

There is nearly a smile. “Why do I get the feeling you were behind this, Thomas?”

“I merely made a suggestion. Some time ago now.” It was before Calais when he’d said to the king that Audley was a good man. 

“Yes, well I haven’t seen much of you. It was too bad about Norfolk.”

“Dreadful. He’ll be missed. This business with the Scottish border, for starters.”

“Don’t remind me. I’ve only just started and already a full plate.”

“You could do with help, I imagine.”

“That’s what I’m here for, actually. To ask you to come back. Edward Boner’s still in Italy. And with no Norfolk, no Cromwell, we are spread a bit thin.”

He nods. “I can’t return until the king asks for me. You know that.”

“Could you not write to him? Apologize? Grovel?”

“It is the marchioness that’s the problem. As long as she’s angry, I’m persona non grata.”

“She cuts off her nose to spite her face. We need you to meet with the Nuncio. No one else knows the case half so well.”

“When the cardinal was in exile, she still blamed him for the fact that the annulment was going nowhere. I don’t expect it will be any different if talks with the Nuncio fail.”

“Why don’t you meet with her? Clear the air.”

“You could put in a good word on my behalf with Lady Anne.” Audley looks terrified until he realizes it’s a joke.

“I wish there was something I could do,” Audley says, wrinkling his brow sympathetically.

“Well, you are Lord Chancellor. You could make a recommendation. For the good of the common weal. Henry’s very fond of the common weal.”

“Recommend what?”

“There must be a backdoor into that meeting. I could come along to translate. My Italian’s better than my Latin.”

“Thank God for that.”

 _Everyday I miss the Cardinal of York._ Henry had said it on one of their first meetings, as if he was powerless to bring him back, as if it took more than the merest snap of his fingers for it to happen. Henry will pine for a while and move on. He, Cromwell, is almost inured to the idea of leaving the privy council for good.

“Congratulations are in order for you as well,” Audley says, looking relieved to have something to fill the growing silence in the study. 

“On what?”

“On your marriage. You look well. The lady suits you.”

“Oh that,” he laughs. “Yes, thank you. Has it been so long since we’ve met? I suppose it has.”

“I missed the festivities at Christmas. And the king’s weddings. Both of them. Though I’m not supposed to know about them.”

They both laugh. “Yes, well there was some excitement afterward. I’m sure you’ve heard.”

“Yes, I had heard something.” Audley looks around awkwardly before adding, “If I find a backdoor way into this meeting, will you do something for me?”

“What?”

“Meet with Lady Anne. At least make the effort...”

“I would love nothing more,” he says, growing cross at the circular pattern of the conversation. “I don’t think it likely. She is drafting up pamphlets about my infamy as we speak. I doubt she’ll see me.”

“I think she might. If things go well with the Nuncio.”

 

+++

Things don’t go well with the Nuncio. And anyway, he is not invited, even as a translator. Perhaps Henry no longer gives a two penny fuck about the common weal.

Chapuys comes again, sitting with his feet up on an embroidered stool with a plate of fat spanish olives perched daintily on his knees. He looks around as if he were sizing the place up for himself and finding it to his satisfaction.

“I hear they are making Cranmer Archbishop of Canterbury. Do they not usually leave that office vacant as long as possible?”

“Yes, up to a year, to avoid paying the salary.” Cranmer is another friend who does nothing to speak out on his behalf. Well, at least he can thank Cranmer for Mary. He inadvertently helped him there.

“Perhaps the king has some other scheme in mind for income?”

“Perhaps.” It is more likely that Henry isn’t thinking about money, because the Boleyns are driving him toward a coronation and excommunication. He shrugs. 

+++

February comes and goes and no word from Henry. The rains come and don’t go. They settle down, with their feet up for the duration: it is Lent and the streets fill with mud. The daily crowd at his pauper’s meal increases, the faces leaner, bodies carved in at the sides with hunger. He and Mary look out from the gallery at the people who seem to have gradually taken on the color of the muddy streets. He takes Mary’s warm hand and orders the fires banked up higher inside the great room, for Mercy’s sake, he says.

Anne holds a Lady Day feast, presiding as queen in all but name over another grand occasion with no expense spared. No invitation comes and none is expected. He celebrates quietly with his family: mass at the Friars, the old priest crawling on hands and knees to kiss the crucifix -- utter rubbish, but Mary and the children love it; and then a roasted lamb, a gift from a grateful recipient of some of the last of the cardinal’s land. He and Mary sit up in bed, reading about the royal feast in a note from the man he has lately placed in Chapuys’ house as a spy -- for even Chapuys does not stop by much anymore.

In late March, ships carrying grain for the crown are seized by the Scots. His man in Berwick says it was two ships, Chapuys in his letters to the Emperor claims as many as eight. Even splitting the difference, that is five ships full of corn and malt and beans for the starving people of England and to victual the skeletal garrison on the Scottish border. Berwick is nightly overrun by Scots who burn the stockpiled corn and steal cattle, aided by the northerners who don’t much like the idea of their food going south. 

The messenger arrives on April first, a filthy day. The man’s orange and white livery are splattered with shit-gray mud. He, Cromwell, steps out onto the gravel in the downpour to meet him and it is as if the clouds had parted and the sun had broken forth to shine on Austin Friars: a message from the king, at last.

“Thank God,” Mary says, as he tears open the royal seal in the hallway. 

“I thought you liked me being at home.”

“It was wonderful for the first few weeks. Dancing lessons and chess and every meal was like a holiday. But you are bored.”

“No. Just less busy. It’s nice.” She rolls her eyes.

“How many times have you reorganized the library?”

“Three...ish. The last one could hardly be called a full-on reorg--”

“And how many times a day do you pester Thurston with changes to the menu?”

“Alright, I admit it. I might be a bit bored,” he says, smiling, taking her hand, kissing it, savoring the moment before he reads the letter.

“Well?” she asks impatiently. He frowns, reading. “What?! Good lord, Thomas, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“I’m to go to Northumberland, to assess the border situation on his behalf.” He can assess it right now: it's a fucking disaster. 

“That’s good news, then! He wants you back.”

“Spoken as one who’s never been to Northumberland.”

+++

Berwick is ten days of hard travel each way. He draws the map in his head, joining the points of rest with long stretches of unknown road: the hypothetical one mile that turns into five or six with dusk closing in; the trusted inn closed for repairs; the weather pinning them down when they have to cross a river or a stream. 

Christophe complains in French, wishing that he would have stayed home. “Could you not have sent the Spaniards to look after the horses instead?” They sit under their cloaks in the rain eating cheese by the side of the road in Hertfordshire. At least the cheese is good, Christophe admits. The king has sent young Howard and George Boleyn as well, some misguided plan in the hope that adversity will bring them together, though they refuse to travel with his group and prefer to stick to inns on the main road. He has his favored spots off the beaten track: fewer bed bugs, better food. Experience is worth its weight in gold in travel. Let Boleyn and Howard be half-starved and eaten alive in their beds. 

They arrive at Berwick in a gale. The doors of the garrison are barred for the night. They pound at the gate with sticks and rocks, “hullooing” until they are hoarse, but the guards do not hear or pretend not to, preferring to stay in their shack out of the wind and rain. He cannot blame them, honestly, but he would string them up now if he could. How safe could they be from the Scots if a band of men -- they could be anybody -- is allowed to stand at the gate indefinitely? They retreat to a nearby inn where Boleyn and Howard are finishing their evening meal. 

“There’s the coward, now,” Boleyn says to his friend.

“How’s the ear, Lord Rochford?” he calls cheerfully, sitting on a stool by the fire to warm his hands. He puts his feet up nonchalantly on the fender. Richard and Rafe eye one another nervously. Christophe reaches for a knife that he keeps hidden in his cloak. Boleyn starts to stand, young Howard grabs his shoulder and holds him in his chair.

“Leave it, George. We’re outnumbered.”

“Better now than leave him to cut our throats in our sleep.”

He turns from the fire to face them. “Gentlemen. I have no intention of fighting you, no matter how you insult me. You have nothing to fear from me. The king sent us on this mission together and we need each other.”

Boleyn laughs. Howard sneers. 

“You laugh, Lord Rochford, but what do you know of the administrative needs of Berwick? How will you know if they tell you the truth when they hand you a list of supplies?” Howard looks at George and then back at him, a look of fear on his young, freckled face.

“And for my part, I’d much rather be in a room full of northern dukes and earls with you two than without. They look at me and see a blacksmith’s son. They honor blood before merit up here.”

“He’s right, George. I know nothing of my father’s business here.” 

A look of disgust flashes across George’s face; he picks up his cup and drains it. He, Cromwell, turns back to the fire. Richard and Rafe move off to find the innkeeper to order some supper. Christophe quietly puts his knife away.

***

When he returns from the north it is May -- there are roses around the door at Austin Friars -- and Anne’s coronation is weeks away. He meets with the king frequently about the monasteries. He has worked up a scheme, a rubric, by which to assess the property and pension of the clergy. In the end, the profit is less than Henry would like and far less than Chapuys estimates in his letters to his master in Spain. Anne disapproves, says it makes them look like they are motivated by greed, though they are spending more on this coronation than they did on Christmas and Easter celebrations combined. Her ceremony must be bigger and brighter and louder than Catherine’s. He looks over the bills: twenty yards of ermine trim, a pamphlet about Anne’s virtues (the pamphlet about his “cowardice” at the duel never surfaces), fifty barges, a white litter, acres of velvet in various colors: scarlet for judges, blue for knights.

A week before the coronation she sends for him. He finds her at York Place, which he cannot enter without thinking of the cardinal, without seeing the ghost of the old coat of arms under Anne’s scarlet and orange Falcon blazing in the doorway. The smell of the floorboards in the dry, warm air takes him back to that summer day long past when he relayed the dreadful news: _while you were away in France, my lord Cardinal, my wife and daughters died._ The old man had tried to give comfort but stopped, knowing there was nothing to say to any man, let alone one as difficult as Thomas Cromwell. The look on his face had been enough. He wishes he had the old man for comfort now. _Our mistake was underestimating Anne Boleyn._

Anne sits near a window sewing, a group of ladies around her. A peaceful, angelic scene, thoroughly staged for his benefit. He steps forward, bows, removes his hat. He takes the pouch from his shoulder, removes a bill naming Henry head of the church. 

“This should please you,” he says, unfurling the paper. She snatches it up, smiling despite herself, tracing the opening lines with her finger. “It’s only a draft, mind.”

“It does please me, Cremuel. When will you put it through? The king should be on hand to witness.”

“We’ll wait until we run out of options with Rome first. Who knows?”

She nods, smiling tightly, and then, “You wished to see me? You have something to say, then say it.”

“My lady, I do. It was never my intention, in quarreling with your brother, that there should be a rift between us.”

“We are a close family. Some of us anyway,” she adds archly, a slight toward Mary he supposes. “And it is impossible to give offense to one and not the other.”

“I asked for your audience because I hope to move on from the business. It has been settled many weeks. Lord Rochford and I worked together in Northumberland on behalf of the crown. Our mission was a success….”

She sits calmly, enjoying the moment, watching him squirm. At length she says:

“I will tell you a secret about that trip. It was my mother’s idea. Insisted that it would heal the breach.” He takes a moment to ponder and absorb this. He shivers, thinking he was lucky to come back from the North alive. “It appears to have worked.” She rolls the bill idly and then hands it back to him. He fiddles with it, tightening it before nervously working it back into the pouch. He can feel her eyes on him. When he looks back up she is studying her fingers, intently. 

“I am willing to forget your wanton cowardice on one condition.”

He grits his teeth. “Which is?”

“That my sister participates in my coronation day. I wish that my family might at least appear united on that day.” 

He has sworn to oppose just such a thing, back when the idea was mere speculation, when it seemed unlikely that Anne would ever see him again.

“I will need to confer with the lady, of course, before giving my answer.”

She drums her fingers on the arm of her chair with impatience. “See that the lady agrees. Or you can consider your service to the king at an end.”

That night at dinner, he chases his mutton around on his plate before Mary stops him, asks what’s bothering him. It’s not like him to pick at his food.

“I have a question to put to you. And you must not answer for my sake. You must be selfish, if you can.

“If I can! How kind you are. It must be dreadful. Go on then, I’ll try my best to be selfish.”

“Your sister would like you to take part in the coronation as part of her train.”

“Is that all? I knew this was coming. What aren’t you telling me? Why all this business about being selfish?”

“She threatens to have me removed from the council if you don’t. It’s nonsense, of course. She has no such power.”

“Not yet, anyway. Do you want to stay on the council?”

“After the trip to the North, yes, to see that through. I must push for our recommendations to Henry or it will undo all the work we’ve done. The Scots will never negotiate with us if we don’t make a show of strength up there. We will be at their mercy forever.” Negotiation. Treaty. It’s what Wolsey would have wanted. He can’t quit now. She reads it in his face.

“If I agree to do this, you must do something for me.” Quid pro quo. She is a good schemer, damn her. 

“What?”

“While you were away, there was an incident. Disturbing, but not so much that I felt the need to bother you with it. But since I have your ear now, I may as well tell it." She carries on eating, talking between little mouthfuls, "I was attacked. No, don’t look so alarmed, not quite, but, you see I was walking through the grounds of the Friars, just to stretch my legs. You know I cannot bear to be cooped up. It is like a dungeon sometimes with your wall, sir. I took Christophe and Adelle with me. I was quite safe, but Adelle was struck with an egg, thrown from some one of our neighbors. We retreated and felt quite lucky to escape with nothing worse. I know we shouldn’t have gone out but, Thomas," she pauses, a piece of meat suspended on the end of her knife, "do you not think it is time to settle this business with the fence lines?”

“I could offer an easement.”

“What's that?”

“The right to cross or otherwise use another man's property. It could be obtained, with some ready cash.”

“Pay them off?”

“Yes, more or less. That’s what it amounts to.”

“Will you do it?”

“For you, yes,” he says, lifting the joint of mutton to his lips, his appetite suddenly returned.

+++

He is at the Abbey early, sees that Henry is installed in his paneled room where he can sit in private and sweat on a velvet cushion, watching the proceedings through a mesh screen.

Mary carries Anne’s train, helps lower her body to the floor gently for the supplication, mindful of the swollen belly beneath the robes. She stands by to see her sister, floating in a cloud of incense, made Queen of England. Mary’s face is pale, implacable; she moves slowly and deliberately. He focuses his attention on her, as if he can will her through the motions with the force of his mind. 

When it is done, Henry calls him into the paneled room, gives him an errand. Anne and the ladies have retreated to the cooler rooms at the back of Westminster Palace. He must find them there.

It is an awkward business, making love to another woman while your wife looks on, he thinks as he makes his way through the crowd outside the cathedral. The June day started gray and hot and is now blazing blue. He wipes his sweating brow, his face no doubt the color of his new crimson doublet. 

He takes his purse from his waist and dumps the ring into his steaming palm. He knocks on the door. Mary Howard, Norfolk’s little daughter, answers. “No, you can’t possibly come in.” His chest tightens at the thought of her. In Calais he had focused on the boy, not thought of the girl made fatherless. At least she is betrothed to little Richmond. She will never want for anything. She simpers in front of him now, enjoying her small authority. “The ladies are en deshabille.” His step daughter, Catherine Carey, comes to his rescue, saying, it’s only Master Cromwell. He smiles gratefully. 

En deshabille counts for less in England than in France, he suspects: the ladies have their hoods off, Anne is sprawled out on a couch in her shift, her feet bare, her stockings dangling from a cushion to dry. Mary stands nearby, fanning the swollen royal ankles. 

“Can you not leave Howard women alone?” Anne teases. She looks like a corpse laid out in white linen, but her voice is playful and light. Mary has fixed her concentration on the far wall. “For an ugly man you are very sure of yourself.” 

He steps forward, bowing, hiding his blush with his hat. 

“What’s that you are wearing?” 

“Crimson.”

“It’s a very black sort of crimson. Did you go against my orders?”She squints at him. The shades are down and the room is quite dim.

“Your cousin Francis Bryan says I look like a traveling bruise.” There is a laugh from the corner: Lady Rochford enjoys the joke, if no one else does.

“Can you do this?” he asks, as tender as he dares, his eyes fixed on Mary.

“Oh she’ll bear up,” Mary says, looking at him at last, the hint of a smile on her lips. She looks like she might drop any moment. They’d talked about whether to announce her own pregnancy but couldn’t decide if it would make Anne more or less likely to go easy on her. “She was born for this, after all.” Jane Rochford snorts out another laugh.

Jane Seymour appears from the shadows to ask, “Is the king watching?”

“He is proud of her,” he says, not taking his eyes off Mary. “Says you have never looked more beautiful.” Mary fans faster. “He sends you this.” He holds out the ring. “And a kiss which he says he had better bring in person.” His face burns. He doesn’t dare look at Mary now, but keeps his eyes fixed on the diamond before him. Somehow the ring is still in his hand and Anne shows no sign of taking it any time soon. He is tempted for a moment to lay it on her swollen, seven-months gone belly and walk away. Instead he hands it to her sister. She holds it as if it were a hot coal in her hand, before handing it off to Jane Rochford who looks like she might pocket it. Anne takes it at last, sitting up to snatch it away in annoyance. 

Lady Rochford says to Mary -- in a voice that is, for her at least, gentle-- “we must get your sister on her feet and back in her robes. So see Master Cromwell out and enjoy your usual confabulation. I see no reason to break with tradition.” He had expected some hostility from her, but she seems almost congenial toward him. Anne’s frown is explanation enough for Lady Rochford’s kindness. 

In the hall, just outside the door, he takes Mary in his arms and her legs fold underneath her, leaving him to support her as best he can on his shoulder. “I should never have asked you to do this. You’re not well. I could see it in the ceremony. You’re sweating.”

“Everyone is sweating. It’s June.”

“But you don’t sweat. Not usually. You glow.” 

She rolls her eyes. “I’m fine, Thomas.”

“Can you not sit?”

“She won’t let anyone rest for a moment. Keeps us busy with any number of little tasks.”

She rests her head on his shoulder and he brushes the damp hair away from her face. She pulls back, standing on her own again, to show she can, he supposes. He turns her around and loosens the lacing on her kirtle. Then, encircling as much of her waist as he can with his hands, strokes the small of her back with his thumbs. She sways on her feet, her head bobbing back in relaxation, a tiny groan of relief escaping her lips. 

“Blood of Christ, that feels good. I hope Anne is rested soon. I’m starving. You don’t have anything on you, do you?”

“You mean food? Why do you always--”

“You do, don’t you? Confess!”

“Only these,” he says, stopping his ministrations. She whimpers in protest at the loss of his touch. He reaches into his purse and pulls out a small envelope of sugared almonds. He shakes a few into her outstretched palm.

“Oh, thank God,” she says, crunching indelicately, sugar stuck to the corner of her lips. “You should have offered these to Anne. She would probably have been happier than with the ring.”

“She did seem rather unimpressed by it. A nice stone, too. A shame.”

She gobbles up the rest of the nuts while he reties her kirtle, loosely. 

“Better?”

“Better. You don’t have a flagon of small beer in there do you?” she says, pointing to his purse. He shakes his head and she reaches up and pulls him into a kiss. Her mouth is fiery hot, tasting of sugar. He takes her face in his hands, forgetting himself for a moment. When he pulls back -- ruffled, fizzing to the core -- he whispers, “Something should be done about you, Madam. You are a menace.” She smiles, wickedly. He pulls out his handkerchief: they are both dripping in the heat of the hallway, the warmth of embrace, the masses of velvet and fur. He catches drops from her brow, wishing they were elsewhere: the cool back porch at Austin Friars, the garden at Stepney in the shade of an oak. She is glowing again. Color has returned to her face. 

Must have been the almonds.

Someone --- Jane Seymour -- approaches and they break apart. 

“Mistress Cromwell, she wants you.” 

“Good lord. What now?” Mary sighs, returning to her post. He is reminded of their first meeting, their first "confabulation." Jane Seymour is grown up and not trembling to interrupt them. Jane Rochford is their ally, seemingly. And Mary is his wife. Still, he has the same feeling watching her walk away from him, a kind of aching at their parting, however brief. He turns to go, relieved to have his errand completed at least. The king will want a report. He must arrange his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe we're at the end of another huge multi chapter. I could not have made it this far without the constant help and support of Onstraysod. Biggest hugs ever to you, dear.
> 
> The story will carry-on in the third (and final?) multi-chapter, [Buried Empire](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7410793)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Onstraysod for her wonderful help as an editor. When can I start paying you back in Kylo Ren action figures?
> 
> Thanks to Video-et-Taceo for consultations on the infant Robert Dudley. 
> 
> While I'm reminding you that Cromwell's body has been Rylanced for the purposes of fanfiction, it's probably more relevant to the story to note that Mary Boleyn's body has been Wakefielded.
> 
> Some historians believe that Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII were secretly married at Dover. Mantel implies that they did not marry, substituting a bible oath sworn in Calais. In this way, I have broken with canon in favor of history.


End file.
